




* ^r, .'£ms3i>* n* 


»w*» ° ^ ^ 

^ '“o, o’* 

V * 



• ^ <b * 

• r£ A v ♦' 

, : Y* > 

• <0 

* 4? ^ • 

* <y 



, jy 0 - 7 ^ «5 °^. 

, o° “V «> ° 0 * 

. *•«’• . V *».*’ ,# °^. .. ^ 

c\ aO * ♦ <> *> ♦ 1 * «* A 0 »Lvw ♦ ^ 



• ^ 4$> *' 

\ ** <? * 

♦ «? • £?31® * AV ^ ° tf 

.0* .«.!•♦_ V \ ,0* 

«i.o* '*we&\ , 



° ^ ^ 

* CL 



0 « 0 




V »I * •* C> 


_ _ ° ^ 

* • ' 1 ' A 0 ^ * • * o « ,** o 

•^° ^ V . . i *J>. ^ 


o 




^4. A^' *hA < %^ A*' 


* * 




* A* • 


— oS r , * * 

O _\W’ ,v » * ^ 

° A ''n?<mic %■ c • 

0 


> 0 v 



* «6 O, *<- , # 

0 ^ c 0 " * * "*© 



> ^ V ^> * A ^ 

K n 0 "V V^SS^V <A % o \ _ ^ 

0 **ii£w* ^ <> *l*°* C\. <0^ I * V 

* ^ av tjAWA “ N* A * 

V*V °Iov ° 

, •,« »,/ V^-, 

^ <0 o ♦v?.^ A 

<P. (\ > 0 * o . ’^J-s 

• .'^mr. ;gm^\ +u a 0 ' 

* ^ * 



'*.«* *0*1+ 0 

-A . • 1 ' • * ,<y o o * • j, 


^5 ^ 


v* 0 ^ 


- f. v " 0 **&fmjt’? o’ ^ "*%JK^ r »" ^°' < '^ '*~<gM3Ts 

A t . v^;-* *° .. v'-^\ A \.‘-1r^ 
v »:&:• A A oi&c. A* A \ a 


° <?v A 


: ^ A 


«> aVA> 

* A %■ 



- ^ A .* 

• * 

* A* *f, o 




'* ■A A *’ 
: Vv * 

G </\ 



* <&'' jy %>. J . ^ipjv a> 

„ _ 4 - 0 L V <£> % V 

<b '** ** A o <& at;v a 

'.*m& , ^ 0 <j og^^a- ^ 0 

» A ^ *f<zm§' >°’ 7 Vv *'. 

* O * 0 j. ^ 

» « 0 ° . ?> *•<•>* A? " o . » 4 

)' <vVl;. T > v % »;*»- c\ . 0 ^ >*/,■% <> v 

\ .jefr&iTn^ <*> ,.-v /. * . £?. 5i • *p^ i 


A 0 <b. ‘ 

^ , 1 V*. *> 




A /A^i/h, 




% 












































LEAVES 

FROM A 

PHYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 




















































- 






















- 



















' 




LEAVES 


FROM A 

PHYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 


BY 


D. E. SMITH, M.D., 

w J 

BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


“Hominem pagina nostra sapit” 
“Nihil scriptum miraculi causa.” 


« NEW YORK : 

THE NEW YORK PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

37 PARK ROW. 

18G7. 

V 




/ 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, 

By D. E. SMITH, M.D., 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the tomilhonm f, ff 9 

District of New York, 


JOHN e IHfA, STIMOTYPtA A IUCTAOTYPIA. 
•0 CINTRI STRUT, 8IW TOM. 



CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


To the Public 7 

The Beautiful Consumptive 15 

The Step-Daughter 35 

Little Jenny, the Beggar-Girl 51 

The Second Wife, and the Infidel’s Death-bed 65 

My First Case of Poisoning 83 

Beauty, Intelligence, and Refinement : A Sacrifice 

to Wine 99 

Death at the Bridal Altar 120 

The Bride of a Fortnight— and of a Year : A Case 

\ 

of Death by False Teeth 127 

The Burglar’s Last Leap. 165 

A Case of Catalepsy 177 


My Second Case of Poisoning. 


192 


6 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 


Playing OrossuM : The Dead brought to Life 206 

The Minister’s Wife: Maternal Loye 213 

The Young Clergyman 223 

The Heroine 236 

The Emigrant Widow 259 

The Insane Secessionist 273 

A Singular Case of Imagination 293 

A Wise Use of Adversity 304 

Misplaced Affection 313 

The Stab 332 




TO THE PUBLIC. 

t 



[HE writer of this book is fully aware that not 
merely his critics, but the general public also, 
will find in it errors and shortcomings. Criti- 
cism he has no desire to disarm or to prevent. But in 
reply to some portion of the criticisms which he antici- 
pates, he would say — and he feels that to omit saying 
this would be to do injustice to himself — that the book 
has, necessarily, been written under the pressure of 
daily professional life, and amid the many drawbacks, 
the abundance of distracting cares, which the duties of 
his profession unavoidably bring with them. 

Nor does the author claim for his book, regarded as a 
medium of instruction, of encouragement to the practice 
of virtues, or warning by the consequences of vice, any 
especial pre-eminence, either in a medico-literary, or in 
a moral point of view ; though he hopes that when his 
narrations are scrutinized in the latter particular, it will 
be found that he has not pandered to a vicious or doubt- 
ful morality. 

The work of drawing out these sketches was begun 
more than eighteen years since, during the “first im- 
pressions” and earlier excitements attendant upon enter- 
ing into the duties of a profession eminently calculated 


8 


TO THE PUBLIC. 


to reveal to the observing eye every phase of human 
life, and every variety of human character. And the 
fruits of that labor, accumulating ever since on the 
author's hands, and (as his time would allow) gradually 
taking form and completeness, are herewith presented 
to the Reader. 

The author had, in fact, in the beginning of his pro- 
fessional career, adopted the practice of jotting down 
outlines of, and incidents in, the history of such medical 
cases, coming under his observation, as exhibited any 
thing of a striking or remarkable character, and after- 
wards filling in the important details, and recording 
such reflections as in each case the circumstances or the 
result seemed to suggest. Having shown, in the rough 
draught, to a medical friend, in whose judgment he has 
great confidence, some of the brief narratives which had 
thus accumulated, that gentleman was pleased to ex- 
press his approval of their form and spirit, and to recom- 
mend their publication. The author has, accordingly, 
from the first draughts which he had on hand, selected 
and brought together such as he deemed of the highest 
interest, or calculated to convey the most striking les- 
sons. These he has revised and arranged, and now — 
“ Lo 1 are they not written in the book V y 

The author desires also to say that the public may 
rely on the accompanying sketches and incidents as 
being recitals of veritable transactions, as narratives of 
facts which came under his direct observation, at vari- 
ous periods in the career of active medical practice, the 
length of which has been already indicated, and which 
has been carried on principally in the cities of Brooklyn 
and New York, and the adjacent suburbs. They are no 


TO THE PUBLIC. 


9 


mere pictures from fancy: the pure coinages of the 
brain, however pleasing or exciting, or apparently true 
to nature, such could be made, have no place in this 
book. Its perusal maj 7- , perhaps, serve to furnish the 
reader’s mind with some additional confirmations of the 
familiar truism, that 

“ Truth is strange — stranger than fiction !” 

Every medical man of long experience who may read 
the following narrations, will, the author is sure, recog- 
nize in many of them characters, incidents, and conjunc- 
tures similar to those he has met with in his own expe- 
rience ; and, indeed, to present these facts as new, or as 
differing peculiarly from such as are likely to come un- 
der the observation of his medical brethren, would be 
among the things farthest from the author’s thought or 
intention. 

Further — and this it is scarcely necessary to say — the 
present work is not intended especially for the reading 
of medical men, nor is it, in the sense usually attached 
to these words, a medical work. The author does not 
here aim to present his cases from the scientific point of 
view, but chiefly in their domestic and social aspects. 
He would deal with those, some part of whose lives he 
here depicts, rather as men and women , than as the sub- 
jects of particular modes of medication. It is not his 
province here to consider special therapeutic agencies, 
their applications or their value. The audience to which 
he has particularly desired to speak is the non-profes- 
sional, or general public. He ventures to hope, how- 
ever, that he has not left his recitals devoid of interest 
for the medical reader ; nor by any lack of honor or cour- 

1 * 


10 


TO THE PUBLIC. 


tesy, or through any very marked defects of taste or exe- 
cution, lowered that standard of authorship upon which 
the profession he is a member of may justly pride 
itself. 

Some of the persons alluded to in these sketches have 
gone to their long rest, and so are beyond the reach of 
censure, praise, or other influence which publicity might 
be supposed to involve. Many of them, however, are 
still living ; but a due consideration for the feelings of 
friends, and of course for the subjects themselves, if 
living, must forbid the thought of giving notoriety to 
individuals. The secrets intrusted to the physician’s 
ken are, above all others, sacred; and, by him who 
would not disgrace alike his own manhood and his pro- 
fessional honor, they are to be forever held inviola- 
bly so. 

In these pages, accordingly, fictitious names, or bare 
initials have, in most instances, been adopted. Yet 
those here referred to, who may still be living, will find 
their own portraits drawn in these pages, — with what 
amount of accuracy, they should, perhaps, best be able 
to determine. Still, the safe-keeping of the secret , and 
the avoiding of any undue revelations, rest wholly with 
the prudence and good sense of those interested in pre- 
venting publicity. For, as in duty bound, the writer 
has sacredly kept all names and persons within the in- 
closure of his own consciousness, not even revealing 
them to his most intimate friends. Within the quiet re- 
cesses of his own soul, and when written, in the keep- 
ing of a locked safe, these histories have rested until 
their present appearance ; and now, should any take 
offence, and make an undue exposure of their own pio 


TO THE PUBLIC. 11 

tures, they will, in fact, have only themselves to 
blame. 

One chief purpose of the writer has been to instruct 
and to warn the young, those just entering upon the 
great theatre of life, and who have its terrible dangers 
before them to shun, and its high realizations to seek, 
and, if it may be, to secure. This end he has wished to 
attain, not by tedious, prosaic lecturing upon the ad- 
vantages of virtue, of contentment with our lot in life, 
and of the disposition to make the best of what befalls 
us, and so to prepare ourselves for another and a better 
world, but rather by simply exhibiting life as it has ac- 
tually passed in frequent and close review before his 
own eyes — by daguerreotyping for the reader’s contem- 
plation some of its good and bad phases. And the 
writer has hoped that thus, without ostentation, he 
might by the silent sermons of fact — by living and by 
dying examples — warn, instruct, and persuade the 
young towards that which is highest and best, convin- 
cing them that virtue is its own reward here, and will 
surely meet with its reward hereafter. Should the 
event prove, in time, that he has succeeded in sowing 
the seeds of truth and virtue in one struggling soul, 
leading it to a higher and nobler life, or in warning 
away but one imperilled one from the precipices of vice 
and ruin, he will feel himself amply repaid for the toil 
of many a weary and anxious hour, snatched from the 
constant and exhausting duties of a laborious profession. 

The query may possibly arise in the reader’s mind, 
how it is that the majority of the cases here detailed 
should present features and incidents of striking and 
often unusual character. And he may, perhaps, ask 


12 


TO THE PUBLIC. 


himself whether it can be supposed that all, or a consid- 
erable proportion, of the cases in the author’s practice 
have been so strange or so sad. It will be observed, 
too, that in a somewhat large proportion of the cases 
here recorded, the complaints that have come under 
treatment have had a fatal termination ; and the cap- 
tious reader may ask whether the author’s medical 
labors have not, in the proportion, too frequently ended 
in such a result. 

In answer to the latter point, the author would remind 
the reader that he has necessarily been led to choose 
among his sketches many, the subjects of which have 
been overtaken by hopeless maladies, or have been 
broken down, as it were, in a moment, by some sudden 
and overwhelming shock to the affections, or some terri- 
ble reverse, or other affliction. In such cases, too often, 
the causes that impel the system towards dissolution 
have been fixed in it before medical aid has been ear- 
nestly invoked ; or else it happens that an unconquer- 
able depression of mind — “a broken spirit” — has ren- 
dered all the appliances of the healing art unavailing. 
The candid reader will readily perceive that the results 
of the few cases here noted cannot be taken as a cri- 
terion of the actual event of eighteen years of medical 
practice, and during each of which years there have 
been treated a number of patients ranging upward 
from some hundreds to not less than three thousand. 

In respect to the former point — the strangeness of 
character of many of the incidents — the author would 
say, the cases are strange because he has chosen the 
strange , and that for reasons already explained. It is 
the violent, the startling, the unusual among the inci- 


TO THE PUBLIC. 


13 


dents we meet with that most forcibly seize upon and 
control our attention, that most lastingly impress our 
memories, and that thus, in the end, convey to us the 
most pointed and valuable instruction. This truth holds 
throughout all our experience of nature and of life. The 
plunging, engulfing cataract, the sweeping, devastating 
tornado, the overwhelming avalanche, these things are 
recalled after long years with vivid force and effect, 
while the pattering rain, the gently-distilling dew, and 
the soft winds of heaven, however much enjoyed, are, 
when past, soon and forever forgotten. So, in human 
life, it is the every-day sort of facts and occurrences 
that, though they are silently moulding our characters, 
yet the soonest pass from our consciousness and our 
memories ; and still, these commoner events are by far 
the more numerous in our experience. But the few 
striking or extraordinary events of our lives daguerre- 
otype themselves, and often ineffaceably, on memory’s 
tablet ; they are often recalled, conned over, talked over, 
and they leave a deep and lasting impression upon the 
intellect and the heart. 

In view of such considerations, the author believes 
that the good sense of his readers will confirm the pro- 
priety of the selections which he has made from among 
his cases, and which he here presents. And, in fine, 
until we know the strangest phases of life, we do not 
fully know life itself. The experience of most men who 
have been long in the medical profession would, doubt- 
less, be found to be not very dissimilar to that of the 
writer of these sketches ; yet, with the greater number 
of them, the press of business, or an indisposition to the 
effort, or carelessness, prevents the taking of the pains, 


14 


TO THE PUBLIC. 


the enduring of exhaustion, and the abridgment of the 
hours of rest and sleep necessitated by the work of pro- 
ducing a volume of the rarer experiences of a profes- 
sional career, such as the present is intended to be. 

That this volume, which he now sends forth, may 
serve for the recreation and interesting of its readers, 
perhaps, also, for their instruction, is the highest 
hope of — 


THE AUTHOR. 




LEAVE S 


FROM A 

PHYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 


THE BEAUTIFUL CONSUMPTIVE. 

CTOR ! Doctor !” cried a gentleman, one morn- 
ing, as I was dashing along in my carriage, 
making my usual round of professional visits : 

“ will you call at No. — , street, as soon as 

convenient ?” 

“ Who is sick there ?” 

“ My sister.” 

Taking out my visiting-list, and writing down the 
name and number of the street, I drove on. 

Next morning, by ten a. m., I was by the side of the 
lady in question. As I entered the parlor, she was re- 
clining on the sofa in “ negligee.” Giving me a cordial 
“ good-morning,” and extending her hand with a pleas- 
ant smile, she said, gracefully, 

11 Be seated, Doctor.” 

I was struck with her appearance. She wore a pair 
of elegantly-wrought slippers, on feet that, for size, 



16 


LEAVES FROM A 


might excite the admiration of a Chinese emperor ; and 
if there be any thing in Byron’s small hand as a sign 
of aristocracy, she must have been a sprig of royalty, 
however far removed she might have been in descent. 
She was just completing her toilet, and did not expect 
me so soon. Her hair, black as the raven’s wing, flow- 
ing and wavy, hung in clusters over temples, neck, and 
shoulders. Her brow was moderately prominent, but 
high and broad. Her eye was 6tarlessly black, large, 
and languishing, while both eye and eyebrow were per- 
fect indices to the soul within, shadowing every hue 
of thought, as the chameleon does the colors of sur- 
rounding objects. Her skin was fair, with a rather 
pinky tinge on her cheek. Her nose was aquiline and 
well marked, which, with a prominent chin and fore- 
head, gave her the stamp of more than ordinary intel- 
lectual power. Though of a rather tall and command- 
ing figure, she had a firmness and fulness of chest and 
shoulders in fine contrast with an attenuated waist, 
and fairy-like step, and dignity of bearing. She had a 
silvery voice, and its tones were ringing, varied, full, 
and frequently very pensive, running, in ordinary con- 
versation, through almost the entire musical scale. She 
was a splendid singer, and performed on the piano skil- 
fully. Her age, I learned, was nineteen. By her side 
was a portfolio of paintings and writings, the work, as 
she said, of years, in which were original prose and 
poetic essays, some of which I afterwards read and 
heard sung to music composed by men of undoubted 
eminence, who esteemed her poetic genius highly. 

“ Doctor,” said she, when I was fairly seated by her 
side, “ I am sick. Can’t you do something for me ?” 


physician’s journal. 


17 


I felt her pulse : it was one hundred and fifteen. I 
eyed her form keenly, interrogated her where her pains 
lay, how long she had complained of those pains, and 
what was the character of them. I then applied the 
stethoscope, percussed her chest thoroughly, and satis- 
fied myself she was far gone in that terrible visitant and 
scourge of the northern and eastern parts of this land, 
phthisis pulmonalis, or pulmonary consumption. 

When I had finished my examination, she looked into 
my face, as a man on trial for murder would look into 
the face of a returned jury about to declare him 
“ guilty or not guilty or when about to receive sen- 
tence of death from the judge. Well has Watson said : 
“ Be careful, gentlemen, how you tell a patient he has 
the consumption. Recollect you are pronouncing his 
death-knell.” So thought I, and so looked poor Ellen. 

“Now, Doctor, what do you think of my case?” 

J ust at that moment in came her brother and his com- 
panion, who happily relieved me from giving a direct 
answer to her question. 

A general conversation ensued, in which there was a 
hint, jocosely thrown out, that Ellen had a lover and 
was engaged to be married. “ Poor girl 1” thought I ; 
“ you are doomed to a marriage with a lover who will 
kiss thy fair brow into dust, snap thy tender heart- 
strings to a thousand fragments, and hold thee fast 
in his embrace — the grave ! 0 Death, thou insatiate 

archer I thou lovest the young, the gay, the beautiful ! 
To crush the babe-bud, to trample in the dust the loveliest 
forms, to reduce to ashes our loved ones, and to drive 
from us, as the wind does the chaff, our hopes and joys, 
is thy delight and pleasure. No age, or sex, or tie, is 


18 


LEAVES FBOM A 


sacred in thy lustful eye. The fairest forms, the loveliest 
flowers, thou tramplest in the earth, and their fragrance 
and relics fond friends gather up and lay them away in 
the urns of human hearts — the soul's deep memories.” 

I left some medicine to relieve present necessities and 
to quiet her most urgent symptoms, and promised to 
call next day, — thus giving myself time for reflection 
and determination as to my future conduct towards my 
patient. 

Said her brother, as he followed me to the door : 
“ What do you think of her, Doctor ?” 

“ She is very sick,” I replied, “ and there are grave 
difficulties in her case.” 

Next morning I called again. It was a close, foggy 
morning, one of those days when consumptives have 
terrible work to sustain life. The atmosphere was 
humid, and the air had very little oxygen in it, while 
poor Ellen was at the foot of the hill of discouragement. 
She looked, not like Patience, but Despair, “ on a monu- 
ment.” 

“ 0 Doctor,” said she, “ I feel very unwell this morn- 
ing. I have neglected this cough too long — too long ! 
Pm afraid I shall never get well. I have permitted this 
poor side to utter its moanings unheeded too long,” 
shaking her head mournfully. u What do you think of 
me, Doctor ? Do you think I shall be well in a month ?” 
She paused, then said, “Well in a month,” and looking 
into my face as if to wring from me my very thoughts, 
she repeated, with a peculiar emphasis, the words, 
“ A month” As she uttered the last word, her whole 
soul seemed concentrated in it ; her large, piercing 
eye dilated, fixed itself on me so inquiringly, so ex- 


physician’s journal. 


19 


pressive of a something affecting her very existence, 
some secret she wished me to know and yet dare not 
commit to me, that I turned away from her piercing 
glance, lest I might betray my thoughts, and thus by 
looks declare what I thought prudent not as yet to in- 
form her of. But, like the bloodhound on his unerring 
scent, she was not thus to be foiled. She came back, 
like the stricken, hunted hare, to the starting-point, and 
repeated her question ominously : “ Shall I get well in a 
month — or ever , if that will give you more scope ?” 

“ While there is life there is — ” 

' “ That,” said she, “ will not do. It is your professional 
opinion I want. There are too many precious interests 
involved to depend on any thing short of an opinion 
based on the facts in the case.” 

“ But you could not bear, my dear child, the — ” 

“ I can bear any thing but this awful suspense. Next 
to death is the fear or suspense of it. Pardon my im- 
portunity, but as I have made you my medical adviser, 
I now wish to confide a few secrets to you — secrets 
which may help you to make up your mind more fully 
in my case.” Here the big tears gathered in her eyes, 
like pearls set in diamonds. She broke forth hurriedly, 
with a deep sigh — her large eyes fixed themselves on the 
floor : “I am engaged to be married, Doctor, in one 
month from this day. Can I be ? Will it be proper in 
my condition ? Ought I to put him off this, the third 
time ? Tell me, oh tell ! Here is his last letter ;” and 
pulling it out of her bosom and opening it, she said, 
“let me read a part — his request to me.” 

She began, her cheeks looking like the full-blown rose 
set in a cake of ice : 


20 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Dearest Ellen : — How lonesome, how lost I am 
without you ! Every thing droops and withers when 
you are absent. The flowers you planted are fading 
and dying, your beautiful bouquet and rose-tree decay, 
uncared-for by your hand. The vines are dying, the 
garden-walks look gloomy. Even Dickie, your canary- 
bird, sings not now as he formerly did, and the children 
are asking, * when will Ellen return V But, above all, 
my own poor heart seems bereft of all its joys. I long 
for the time when thou shalt be mine — the time when 
we shall be one in the eyes of the world, as we now are 
in heart. Don’t forget the fourteenth of the month, the 
happy, happy day when thou shalt be mine. How is 
your health ? Be careful of getting cold ; keep your feet 
dry, and be sure to have your cough removed, as you 
must be near many eminent physicians. 

“ I shall be with you, Deo volente, about the twelfth 
of the month. Till then, I remain 

“ Your ever-loving and devoted 

“ William.” 

“ There now, Doctor, what shall I do with that re- 
quest ?” said she, as she slowly folded up the letter, and 
replaced it in her bosom. 

“ My good woman,” said I, " you are not fit to become 
a wife, nor will you be in a month. Your lungs are 
seriously affected, and time only can tell the result of 
treatment, even the best. You must, therefore, dismiss 
that subject as far as possible from your thoughts, and 
leave it for future advisement.” 

As poor Ellen heard these words, she strove with ter- 
rific effort to suppress her emotions, and with painful 


physician’s journal. 


21 


effort succeeded, the color in her cheek coming and 
going like the tide, her lip trembling, and a single tear 
standing in her drooping eye. 

After I had been in attendance on her for some time, 
and saw no perceptible change for good, but the reverse, 
I had in the mean time summoned to my aid the best 
medical counsel I could find, who all confirmed my own 
diagnosis ; and when all hopes of her recovery had fled, 
I felt it my duty, at the request of her friends, to inform 
her of all the facts in the case. Her friends at a distance 
were sent for, lest some unforeseen circumstance might 
take her away suddenly. 

“ Ellen,” said I, as I sat by her side one day, " in the 
event of your non-recovery, what preparation are you 
making for the future ?” 

“ Why, you don’t think I am going to die, do you ? I 
feel well, quite well this morning.” 

“ Ellen, it is my painful duty to inform you, I think 
you cannot get well ; and, as a friend, I advise you to 
set your house in order, and prepare for the future.” 

Ellen bounded from her sofa with a wild, unsteady 
glare in her eye, a pale face, and trembling form ; and 
looking me full in the face, she said, 11 Why did you not 
tell me this before ?” 

I took her by the arm, and gently placed her again on 
the sofa, saying, “ My good woman, I hope you will not 
blame me for doing what, in my judgment, I thought 
best ?” 

She calmed down in an instant ; the storm was over, 
the crisis past ; and she sobbed bitterly, covering her 
face with her thin, white hands. Recovering herself, 
she exclaimed, “ The future , heretofore the brightest by 


22 


LEAVES FROM A 


fond anticipation, now seems shut in — quite shut in by 
a dark, impenetrable cloud and then alternating from 
this gloomy feeling, she cried out, “But now, the past — 
the past is mine 1” 

Again a dark shade covered her brow ; her eyes were 
drenched in tears, her bosom heaved convulsively, and 
she passionately burst forth — “ 0 God ! must I die ? — 
Must all my young heart’s affections wither in the 
grave ? Must I cease loving my William, the idol of 
my heart ? Must all our hopes and joys vanish like the 
snow-flake in the river, which is * a moment here, then 
melts forever V I have read of the man in the iron 
shroud, whose windows were, one by one, closed in 
daily, the sun shut out, the blue waves of his loved 
Sicily circumscribed daily, until at last he was crushed 
to atoms in his iron shroud. And shall I be the bride 
of the tomb, embraced and loved, kissed and cofl&ned by 
the grave, and not by my William — and lie there, the 
summer’s sun scorching my clay, the grass and flowers 
growing over me, and the bleak winds of winter howl- 
ing around my grave-bed ? The future ! it seems a ray- 
less, pathless, starless night. I must leavfc the flowers 
of my country-home, the companions of my school-girl 
days, the haunts of my youth. No more shall I look on 
the towering mountain, bathed in the effulgence of the 
sun’s setting glories— no more hear the gurgling brook, 
the limpid stream, and the rushing waterfall. Gone 
from me are the sweet warblers of the grove, the even- 
ing walks, the starlight canopy of heaven’s night-can- 
dles in the ethereal blue.” Here she wept aloud, and 
sunk exhausted from the effort and excitement. Then 
bursting forth afresh, she hurriedly exclaimed, “ Aye 


physician’s journal. 23 

but I will live in the past , for there is no future for me 
now. 

“ There,” said she, “ Doctor, is his likeness. We have 
wandered by the brook-side in loving embrace, and 
plucked the flowers wild and uncared-for ; we have sat 
by the waterfall and the brook, heard its sweet, plaintive 
murmur, and whiled away the passing hours in sweetest 
reverie, talked of our approaching nuptials, and it was 
there and then I gave him my heart. I gave him all 
without reserve, and I know he returned my fondest, 
wildest, only affection. He is tall, manly, and kind — 
a noble intellect, a truthful soul, and a graceful form. 
He is all the world to me. I have clung to him as the 
ivy clings to the stately mansion, or the tender vine to 
the sturdy oak. But now,” she said, mournfully, “our 
roots must be torn up, and we left to wither in deso- 
lation. Others live — why, oh why not I ? They enjoy 
health and life — why am I thrown, a.c an unworthy 
thing, away, to moulder in the grave ? Oh, life, how 
sweet, how desirable ! Death , how terrible ! The little 
worm will resist it ; the lowing, sturdy ox will burst the 
toils that hasten it ; and the voice of all nature cries 
out against it. Oh, why was I born, to be put in pos- 
session of life, dazzled by hope, made happy by loving 
and being loved, and then torn from the joy when most 
it delighted me, and sent empty away in disappoint- 
ment, sorrow, and death ? Hear the merry children in 
the street,” she exclaimed ; “ mark how their sweet, 
cheerful voices ring out in merry tones ! Oh ! would I 
were a child again, wandering over the hill-sides and 
valleys, plucking wild-flowers. Oh ! my over-burdened 
brain, cease your disturbing thoughts, lest reason de- 


24 : 


LEAVES FROM A 


scend from her throne. Oh, what will become of 
me ?” 

“ Trust in God, Ellen,” I said ; “ try and compose 
your mind ; all may be well yet, at least as regards the 
future in eternity , the brighter world above ; necessity, 
fate, or rather God, visits, and it is done. Who can stay 
His hand ?” 

In the midst of her paroxysms of grief, a carriage 
drove up to the door and stopped : the bell was rung, a 
bustle was heard, as if hackmen were carrying trunks 
in — salutations, and the never-failing recognition of 
females in meeting friends — a kiss. Ellen brightened 
up with expectation, and in an instant more, mother 
and daughter were in each other’s arms. They both 
wept, the one exclaiming, “ My child I my child ! Oh, 
how changed ! how changed !” 

Ellen sobbed bitterly as she replied, 11 Oh, mother, 
mother, my hopes of the future are all blasted 1” 

I immediately left them to themselves, promising I 
would call in the morning. 

“ Is your name Doctor ,” said a splendidly-formed, 

ruddy, and quite prepossessing young man, on the even- 
ing of the same day, as he in a somewhat excited 
manner entered my office. 

“ That is my name, sir.” 

“ I believe, then, you are the attending physician on 
Miss Ellen ?” 

“ I am, sir.” 

“ What, sir, do you think of her case ?” 

I looked into the young man’s face keenly, and de- 
tected at once an interest so deep as to persuade me it 
must be Ellen’s William, and then replied, “ Sir, Ellen 


physician's journal. 25 

is far gone in consumption — irrecoverably gone ; that 
fact must be looked steadily in the face.” 

“ Oh, Doctor, don’t say so,” biting his lips, and striving 
very ineffectually to conceal his feelings. “ Doctor,” 
said he, in a suppressed, yet mournfully confidential 
manner, “ I am engaged to be married to that young 
lady. The time is set, the arrangements are all made, 
and I have come on to visit our friends, and the curiosi- 
ties and sights of New York, previous to our marriage.” 

“I am sorry, sir, to inform you, she will not, she can- 
not live long — not one month, and it may be much 
less.” . 

With a deep-drawn sigh, a struggle of soul painful 
and distressing to witness, and a gasping for breath, he 
groaned out, rather than spoke, “ Then my all is gone, 
my hopes are blighted, my brightest prospects are laid 
in the dust. Oh, what will I do, what will become of 
me ? Poor Ellen ! poor Ellen !” he sobbed out convul- 
sively. Then reflecting a moment, he broke forth exult- 
ingly, “ Doctor, have you had a council of physicians 
on her case ? You know, one man, however eminent, 
may not always know all the remedies, or all the proba- 
bilities of cure of a bad case. Now get counsel, the 
very best, at any price, far or near, and it may be there 
is still hope ; and who knows what God may yet have 
in store for us ?” 

“ My dear sir,” I replied slowly — I knew the language 
I was about to utter would annihilate his last ray of 
j 10 p e — “ we have had a council of the best medical men 
the metropolis of the New World affords, and all pro- 
nounce her a hopeless case of Consumption.” 

His countenance fell, with my utterances, from the 
2 


26 


LEAVES FROM A 


zenith of hope to the lowest nadir of despair. He looked 
as if he heard the knell of doom. Passionately he ex- 
claimed, “ Can there he nothing done to save her ? Must 
she die ? Must we part so soon ? We had hoped to live 
and love together. For her , I have toiled night and 
day. I have built her a stately mansion, by the side of 
the river she so dearly loved. There, too, are her flower- 
gardens laid out, cultivated, and awaiting our return. 
The very places we have so often wandered over, are 
now her parks, garden-walks, fairy bowers, and well- 
known streets. And must she now leave them all, and 
be removed from my embrace, care, and love ? Better, 
better far we never had been born. But she shall still 
be mine, in life or death ; she is the first, and she shall 
be my only choice. Her memory shall be mine forever.” 

He withdrew, thanking me for my frankness, and re- 
questing me to call and see her as often as possible, as 
Ellen was always “ so cheery,” as he expressed it, when 
I was present. 

Next morning, as I entered the room, she and William 
were sitting together on a sofa, her head reclining grace- 
fully on his shoulder, while he was showing her some 
new music he had bought for her in Boston on his 
way here. I instinctively thought of Byron and his first 
love, and of the poet Burns and his love, and whose pic- 
tures I had often seen in the show-windows as I passed 
through the streets. There was no change of counte- 
nance or position made as I approached them. They 
seemed bent on making the most of life’s brief space. 
After the usual salutations, \ inquired professionally and 
otherwise ; and the usual routine being passed through, 
I said, “ Now, Ellen, I have been desiring to hear you 


physician’s journal. 


27 


and William perform together, as I understand you are 
both musicians. Will you favor me with one of your 
old familiar pieces, either original or selected ?” 

The family having entered one by one, William and 
Ellen slowly seated themselves by the piano. She 
played, while he sang the following, one of her favorite 
and appropriate pieces : — 

“ Joys of my childhood, vanished forever, 

Days oft remembered, which never return. 

Flowers in the wildwood, path by the river. 

Long will their memory linger and burn. 

Dear was the home of my father and mother ; 

There have I played with my sister and brother, 

There have I roamed by the side of my mother. 

Happy and pure in my life’s merry morn. 

“ Friends of my childhood, tender and loving, 

Scattered like leaves o’er the desolate plain ; 

Dreams of my childhood, where are you roving, 

Never to gladden my pathway again ? 

Morning, that burns on the brow of the billow. 

Driving the mist from the mariner’s pillow, 

Waking the lark from her nest ’neath the willow, 

Brings not the light of my past days again.” 

“Doctor,” said Ellen one morning, as I sat by her 
bedside, “ I have been thinking about what you said in 
regard to the future world, and that preparation neces- 
sary for so great a transition as all must pass through. 
William and I have been reading the Bible, and praying 
that God, our heavenly Father, would fit us for that 
pure and holy place ; and, strange as it may appear to 
you, I am now not afraid to die. A sensation of happi- 
ness at the thought of living in the mansions prepared 


28 


LEAVES FROM A 


by the Saviour of men fills my mind, and William is 
more willing I should go, seeing it is my destiny. It is 
sad to die so young, but God’s will be done. Painful 
has been the struggle, but I submit. 

“ Doctor,” continued Ellen, “ did you ever think of the 
unity of the Christian poets on the one great theme of 
the love of our Saviour to men ? They doubt, contro- 
vert, and often disagree about every thing else ; but 
when their creeds are lost sight of, and the Cross stands 
out before them, then they all agree. Hear,” she ex- 
claimed (her cheeks glowing with a redder tinge as 
her fine conversational powers waxed stronger), “ how 
Watts expresses himself : — 

“ ‘ Alas ! and did my Saviour bleed ? 

And did my Sovereign die ? 

Would lie devote that sacred head 
For such a worm as I V 

“ And hear how Wesley sings so beautifully : 

ut Jesus, lover of my soul, 

Let me to thy bosom fly, 

Wliile the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high : 

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 

Till the storm of life is past ; 

Safe into the haven guide, 

O receive my soul at last.’ 

“While Toplady, the bitter opponent of the latter, 
sings so sweetly: 

“ ‘ Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee ; 

Let the water and the blood. 

From Thy wounded side which flowed-. 


physician’s journal. 


29 


Be of sin the double cure — 

Save from wrath, and make me pure.’ ” 

“ Will you and William sing for me the last Ode , or 
hymn, as I am very fond of it ?” 

“Well, Doctor,” she said, “I play but little now; but 
I will try.” And looking around for William, with a 
significancy we all understood, he helped her to the 
piano, and seated himself by her side. She began, he 
accompanying her — 

“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee 

emphasizing the word myself very touchingly, and con- 
tinued on until she finished with the stanza commencing 
with the words — 

“ While I draw this fleeting breath — 

When my eyes shall close in death.” 

Every heart seemed moved, yet no one dared to speak, 
until her mother, unable longer to control her feelings, 
arose, and falling on her neck, weeping bitterly, ex- 
claimed — “ 0 my Ellen, my sweet girl, my only dear 
daughter, how can we part ? My heart must break. 
What shall I do when you are gone ?” 

All hearts were melted, and all eyes suffused with 
tears. The singing was so plaintive, so appropriate, 
so sweetly executed, that the stoutest hearts gave way 
before it. Ellen turned around to her mother, a big tear 
standing in her eye, like the Madonna, and said, faintly, 
her arms closely pressing her mother’s convulsed frame, 
“ 0 mother, dear mother, I shall go before you, it is true, 
but it will only be a brief period. You will soon follow 


30 


LEAVES FROM A 


me. So will yon all, dear friends,” — her eye slowly 
moving around the room, and resting on William. 

Not long after this scene, I was summoned to see her 
die. “ Good-afternoon,” said she, as I entered. And 
there she lay, panting for breath. 

“ You have come to see me die,” she sweetly whis- 
pered ; “and don’t leave me, Doctor, until I am gone. 
Will you promise me ?” she mournfully said. 

I nodded assent. 

“ Well, I go cheerfully, Doctor. Death has no terrors 
for me now. The grave looks pleasant — I long to be at 
rest. Is that my canary-bird singing so sWeetly ? Oh, 
I shalLsoon be singing in heaven, among angels and the 
good of all ages ! And there, too, is the golden sun, 
hurrying to his western home, to be buried for the 
night, and then be raised in the morning. I, too, shall 
be buried and raised again. I shall have a pleasant 
day to go home — not to Vermont, but to — heaven,” 
pointing her delicate, bony finger upward. “ I think,” 
said she, “ I shall be in heaven by to-morrow. I have a 
few gifts to bestow and a few requests to make, and 
then I am ready. Here, Doctor,” she said, “ is my best 
ring,” taking it off her finger ; “ a small token of re- 
spect and gratitude for your professional care, and your 
interest in me. Don’t forget poor Ellen, the Vermont 
stranger , who came in quest of health but found a 
grave.” Taking her silver scissors in hand, she cut off 
a ringlet of her hair, and handing it to a kind friend 
(who had manifested much interest in her during her 
sickness), said, “ Mother and William will forget to take 

it, such will be their grief. See, Mrs. M , for my 

sake, that it is sent to dear Miss S , of B , Ver- 


31 


physician’s journal. 

mont, my early, tried, school-girl friend.” Cutting off 
another, she said, “ This is for you, nurse” handing it 
over to an elderly personage, who sat fanning her 
“You have been with me through life — the first to place 
me in my mother’s arms as I came into this weary 
world, and one of the last to prepare me for my depart- 
ure from it. Remember, nurse, your little Nelly.” 

The old nurse handed me the fan, and hurriedly ran, 
sobbing bitterly, into the adjoining room. We could 
hear her cries and lamentations but too distinctly. 

“Brother,” said she, “bring Sophia (his wife) and 
Ellen (the babe called by her name). Let me kiss you, 
brother — the last living kiss ; but I hope to kiss thee 
where partings shall be forgotten. Let me fold to my 
arms thy little one. And here, Sophia, is my gold brace- 
let Will you wear it ?” 

She nodded assent, too full of sorrow to speak. 

“ And will you keep it for little Nelly, when I am 
gone ? and then there will be an Ellen on earth and one 
in heaven. Brother, if father is willing, here is a docu- 
ment giving all my estate to you for little Nelly. Bring 
her up to think of me in heaven, at rest in the bosom of 
my Saviour. And now, father and mother” (they had 
both imperceptibly placed themselves by her ‘side to- 
gether, and were in an agony of sorrow), “may God 
bless you. What shall I say ? I can only give you my 
poor blessing, and you and William my poor dead body. 
You will take me back, when life ceases, to my early, 
long-loved, native home. You will bury me in the peace- 
ful churchyard. You will watch my grave, plant roses 
upon it, read my tombstone, and point it out to others, 
and say, “ There lies my Ellen,” and weep ; but I shall 


32 


LEAVES FROM A 


not be there, mother dear ! your Ellen will be up, up, 
up, among the stars : aye, above the stars — a sinner 
saved, an angel of light, dressed in shining apparel, 
waiting for and ready to hail your entrance to the 
realms of the blest. I shall still love you — love never 
dies— and shall be, if God will, your ministering 
angel.” 

“ 0 my child !” cried her father, who had restrained 
all external emotions until now, “ our house is now des- 
olate. We had hoped you would have been spared to 
us. Your brother is far away, and you, we hoped, 
would be with us and comfort our age, and be company 
for our declining years. But we must part. 0 God ! 
it is hard, it is hard,” and he left the room, unable to 
control his feelings. 

“ Mother,” said the dying girl, calmly, “ we have 
talked of death, the cold grave, the coffin, and the wind- 
ing-sheet, until we are now familiar with it. I feel that 
I fear it not. It has no terrors for me. Jesus has 
passed on before. Mother, dear mother, kiss me as you ” 
- once did, when you sometimes curled my hair, and 
patted me on the cheek, and called me your own sweet 
Ellen. There, there,” said the poor creature, “that is 
the way,” as the mother and Ellen embraced each other, 
Ellen reclining her weary head on her mother’s bosom. 

It looked like the picture of the mother rescuing and 
warding off the eagle from her innocent boy. 

Looking round, she seemed not yet done, and beckon- 
ing me nearer, she said, “ Where is William ?” 

He had just retired, unable to see her and her mother 
pass through their parting scene. I called him. 

William had urged her to marry him, even though 


physician’s journal. 


33 


she must die. She had thought, from her love for him, 
not best to gratify him, until she saw it marred his 

peace, and she had consented. The Rev. Mr. had 

been sent for, and she was held up in bed, while William 
stood by her side. When the ceremony was over, and 
the man of God, forgetting himself, pronounced the cus- 
tomary “ I wish you much joy,” no one spoke, save 
Ellen. 

Looking up into William’s face, she said, mournfully : 
“ There, now, I am your bride, but what a bride ! soon 
to be dressed for the tomb — my bridal bed the grave — 
my banqueting hall the vault, and crawling worms my 
retainers !” 

William burst into passionate grief, exclaiming : “ 0 
Ellen, Ellen ! you are my bride, and no other shall ever 
call me husband. We shall sleep at the foot of life’s 
hill together. Thy God shall be my God — where thou 
art buried I shall be buried ! Though divided in life, 
we shall not be in death.” 

It was now ten o’qlock, and she was much exhausted, 
and evidently was sinking slowly lower and lower into 
the billows of death. We all sat watching her progress in 
her lonely journey to that “ bourne whence no traveller 
returns.” At half-past eleven she seemed struggling in 
death. We could hear the death-gurgle in her throat. 
Her eye was fixed in that eternity-inquiring gaze, so 
peculiar to the dying state ; her hands were clasped, 
her soul seemed engaged in prayer. We thought all 
nearly over. Suddenly she burst forth, her voice un- 
naturally loud and strong, her eye dilating and wildly 
looking at vacancy, her soul seemingly in an ecstasy, 
exclaiming — 


2 * 


3 4 


LEAVES FROM A 


“Don’t you see them? Don’t you see them? The 
angels ! the angels ! Look, look ! Mother, mother ! 
William, William ! Weep not for me ! Sing, sing ! 
Jesus is waiting to receive me. Oh, I love you all, but 
I love Jesus more ! I am going home, home the last 
word being said faintly. 

We all sung, as she desired us, a favorite hymn of 
her youth, the old nurse leading the tune : 

“Jesus, lover of my soul, 

Let me to thy bosom fly.” 

When we came to the words, 

“ Safe into the haven guide, 

O, receive my soul at last !” 

she raised her head, and tried to say something, smil- 
ing the while ; but all we could gather were the words, 
“ Je, Je,” and in a moment she fell back — dead. 

“ She is gone 1” we involuntarily exclaimed. But we 
finished the hymn, for it was mournfully pleasant to bo 
there. 

The mother rose, and closing her eyes, the tears push- 
ing out as the lids met, calmly said, “ Safely landed, 
safely landed,” and began to assuage the grief of her 
husband, who had just entered to take the last look of 
his dying child. 

Some years afterwards, while seeking recreation 
among the mountains of Vermont from the cares of pro- 
fessional life, a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder, 
exclaiming : 

“ How are you, Doctor ?” 

I turned around. It was William. He took me off 


physician's journal. 


35 


next day to Ellen’s grave, and showed me the monument 
he had erected to her memory. He lived in the mansion 
he had built for her, and was known far and near by 
all the girls as Ellen’s betrothed, a confirmed devotee to 
her memory, his heart in her grave, and his maiden sis- 
ter the only female on earth he cares for. 



36 


LEAVES FROM A 


THE STEP-DAUGHTER. 


JvNE morning, while conning over my list of visits 
for the day, and arranging them in their order, 
an elderly lady stepped into my office, and 
bidding me “ good-morning,” requested my im- 
mediate attendance on her sick child. Recognizing her 
at once as a former patron, and requesting her to be 
seated, I inquired how long the child had been sick. 

“ Since last evening,” she replied. 

“ You must be somewhat alarmed,” I remarked, “ or 

you would not be out thus early, Mrs. W , it seems 

to me.” 

“ My husband is more alarmed than I am. You know, 
it is his only child of whom I am the mother, and he 
thinks the world of it.” 

“ I will be there, madam, as early as possible.” 

“ Good-morning, Doctor. Now, don’t forget.” 

“ Certainly not, madam.” 

Having attended to my first engagement, I drove as 

quickly as possible to street, the residence of Mrs. 

W . The family lived in good style, having all the 

modern conveniences, and enjoying life’s luxuries. 

As I rang the bell, I saw Mrs. W in the parlor, 

with the little boy in her arms. She answered the bell 
herself, and ushered me into the parlor ; and, coloring 



physician’s journal. 


37 


deeply, she exclaimed, “ Doctor, you must pardon me for 
sending for you ; but George seemed quite unwell last 
evening, and even this morning we feared he was about 
having the scarlet fever ; but he now seems quite well. 

Mr. W is easily frightened, and must always send 

for the Doctor, if any trifling thing happens to Georgie. 
But he has gone to his business, as he is now very much 
engaged. He left his kind respects for you, and desired 
me to apologize to you for your trouble.” 

“ No trouble at all, madam ; I am glad it is no worse. 
Give my respects, to your husband.” 

“ But, Doctor, here is a case on which I should like to 
have your opinion.” And turning to a young girl who 
had just entered the room unperceived by me, she intro- 
duced her as her daughter Emeline. I bowed, in token 
of recognition ; and eyeing her a few moments, and also 
interrogating her briefly, she took Georgie in her arms 
and left the room. 

Emeline was a very beautiful girl. She was, it is 
true, of rather small stature, but perfectly symmetri- 
cal. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, of a hazel color, 
and exceedingly expressive ; her forehead and nose 
finely moulded, and indicative of thought and intellect- 
ual power ; while her mouth was all Lavater could de- 
sire, denoting kindness, courage, refinement, and deci- 
sion. Her hair was of a dark-brown, and hung in 
graceful, natural curls over her neck; while her skin 
was as white as the new-fallen snow, — a blush mantling 
the cheek as the least excitement caused the purple cur- 
rent to course more quickly through her veins. I could 
trace no material defect in person or feature. She was 
just sixteen, her mother informed me. 


38 


LEAVES FROM A 


When she had fairly retired from our presence, I in- 
quired, “ How long has she been complaining ?” 

“ Some time ; since my marriage, three years ago.” 

“ Is she regular in her habits ? Does she eat well — 
sleep well ? Is there any thing on her mind P 

All these questions were answered regularly and in- 
telligibly, except the last one, at which Mrs. W 

paused, colored deeply, and vainly strove to hide her 
confusion. As she did not seem prepared to go on, I 
arose to take my leave ; but, at her earnest request, 
waited till she was somewhat calmed. After a struggle, 
evidently to relieve her mind of something she wished 
to keep, and yet desired to be advised upon, she began : 

“You know, Doctor, that poor Emeline is the only 
child of my first husband. Her father was an English 
officer of high temper, and Emeline is very much like 
him in that particular. Though Emeline has never seen 
her father to remember him, he having died shortly after 
she was born, yet she appears to miss him quite as 
much, if not more, than I do. He died with these words 
on his lips : ‘ God bless my dear wife and child !’ Eme- 
line often visits his grave, to weep when any thing 
troubles her, or to plant some flowers. Emeline,” said 
she (looking around as if afraid that some intruder might 
interrupt us), “ and my present husband never did, and, 
I am afraid, never will agree ; and this destroys my 
peace, and has almost ruined Emeline’s healt*h. She 
mourns for her father, eats little, sleeps little, and there 
is constant trouble between them. Mr. W ’s daugh- 

ter is about Emeline’s age, and is pampered by her 
father, who does all in his power to make Emeline a 
menial, which she resists proudly and defiantly ; all 


physician’s journal. 


39 


which, I fear, but serves to ruin her temper and dispo- 
sition. Now, Doctor, what shall I do ? You see just 
how I am placed ; and besides, Emeline says she can- 
not, and will not, endure it much longer ; and her head 
is full of girlish projects to get rid of her embarrass- 
ments, and, with her high spirit, I don’t know what she 
may do.” 

Just then a voice was heard in an adjoining room, 
carolling a popular air, and in dashed a gayly-dressed 
young lady, blooming in all the elegance and show of 
fashion, exclaiming boisterously, “ What do you think, 
ma ; here are two invitation cards, one for you, and one 
for me : ‘ Mr. L. to Miss Olivia T., next Thursday even- 
ing, at the house of the bride, No. ■, street.’ 

What shall I wear? Now, do tell me.” 

Just then she espied me, and, putting her hand to her 
mouth, she gave it a little slap, as if to reprove it for 
being in such haste ; but, recovering herself somewhat, 
and being formally introduced to me, she assumed a 
self-satisfied air, and a smiling countenance, and, with 
a low, long, and flourishing dancing-school courtesy, 
recognized the bow I had made her. I could not help 
comparing her with Emeline, who had stood before me 
a few minutes before. Virginia was a thin, tall, raw- 
boned girl, with rigid form and feature. Her eye was 
small and inexpressive, of a color between blue and 
gray ; her hair red, coarse, and wiry ; her nose short, 
thick, and broad ; while her mouth gave token of decep- 
tion, vulgarity, and pride. Her forehead was low, re- 
treating, and narrow ; and if her fine feathers had been 
stripped off, and her dress in character, she would have 
made a fine representation of those girls who go about 


40 


LEAVES FROM A 


crying “ Radishes,” during the spring months. “ I be- 
lieve, Doctor, you are one of pa’s particular friends ?” 
said Miss Virginia. 

“ Certainly,” said I. 

“ Here, then, is a card for yourself and lady to my 
first public birth-day party.” 

“ Thank you, madam ; my wife and myself will cer- 
tainly attend, if health and circumstances at all permit.” 

“ Mrs. W ,” said I, after the retirement of Virginia, 

rising and drawing on my gloves, preparing to leave, 
“ these family matters are very delicate things for a 
stranger to advise upon ; but it would be well to give 
her some simple medicine, to quiet her nerves. And I 
think it would be well for her to leave home, for a while 
at least, where you can watch her and advise her ; for 
a mother only can, and should, advise and direct her 
daughter. She is nearly of an age to be married how, 
and she is certainly beautiful ; and if away from the 
depressions you speak of, where she can act like her- 
self, she will, most assuredly, gain the attentions and 
heart of some worthy and suitable man as a companion 
for life.” 

Emeline now entered, and, with an arch look, first at 
myself and then at her mother, waited for what might 
be said. I at once suggested to her my convictions of 
the necessity of her removal ; at the mention of which 
she broke out impetuously, “ Oh, that is the very thing, 
Doctor ; I’m so glad you thought of it ! It is just what 
I’ve been telling mother. You will let me go, mother, 
won’t you? Now say yes — say yes; Doctor, make her 
say yes. Oh ! I shall be so glad to be rid of that Vir- 
ginia, and that old — ” 


PHYSICIAN'S JOURNAL. 41 

“ Stop now, Emeline — no more ; remember your youth ; 
and if you respect no one else, respect my feelings .” 

Emeline covered her face, weeping bitterly, and say- 
ing, “ Forgive me, ma ; excuse me, Doctor — I forgot 
myself ;” and away she went, evidently mortified at the 
sudden and unintentional revelation of her pent-up 
feelings. 

Musingly her mother murmured, as she accompanied 
me to the door, “ Mrs. Livingston, in her kindness, has 
frequently urged me to permit Emeline to stay with her 
all of next winter, to cheer her in her loneliness and 
widowhood. I will take your advice, Doctor. I thank 
you kindly, Doctor ; and let me remind you of the birth- 
day party — be sure to come, or you will offend Mr. 
W .” 

Jumping into my carriage, I whirled homeward, rumi- 
nating on second marriages, two sorts of children, and 
two of them young ladies in the positions of Emeline 
and Virginia, in one house, with their discordant feel- 
ings, interests, and parental relations. “And such,” I 
thought, “ is life.” 

The evening of the party came, and came also female 
preparations, which are always slow ; so that what a 
rich bank-president said to us one day has some truth 
in it : “I have been troubled more with the delay of 
ladies in going to parties, and to church and elsewhere, 
than with any other little thing I know of.” But off we 
went, and speedily alighted at the door of the princely 

mansion of Mr. W . There were carriages in great 

numbers, footmen and hackmen promenading the side- 
walk, or chatting together; while the doors were all 
thrown open, presenting a brilliancy and glare quite in 


42 


LEAVES FROM A 


contrast with the humble home of Mr. W while 

porter of the firm of which he was now the business 
head. He was dressed in his best clothes and smiles ; 
and Virginia was seen now here, now there, the star of 
the evening, dressed in a profusion of ornaments and 
fancy female dress goods. She danced, waltzed, and 
chatted most industriously ; then performed on the piano, 
playing marches, quadrilles, and solos, until all were 
her admirers, or, at least, professed themselves to be. 

“ But where is poor Emeline ?” said my wife to me. 
“ Come, let us find her,” said she. 

We searched all over, but found her not. “ Can it 
be,” said I, “her mother has sent her off so soon ?” 

Giving up the search, we were returning to where we 
were before, when we almost stumbled over Emeline, 
sitting in a small anteroom all alone, with downcast 
look and almost tearful eye.- 

“ Come, come, Emeline, what are you doing here ?” 
said my wife. “ Come, get up, and come out from your 
hiding ; this will never do.” And lifting her almost up, 
we took her by the arm, and entered the main parlor, 
where the music and dancing seemed to have just 
ceased. 

Soon all were seated ; and, after a short pause, some 
one proposed that the ladies should each play a favorite 
piece on the piano. Each gentleman led up in turn his 
lady. Presently Virginia was called out, and made her 
appearance, accompanied by a young man who was 
dressed in the height of fashion and elegance, and 
whose father was a rich broker. Selecting her music, 
Virginia gave the not inappropriate air, “ Oh, what de- 
lightful hours ! Pm in pleasure’s bowers ;” which, to 


PHYSICIANS journal. 


43 


say the truth, was well sung and played. An encore 
followed, when she gave them the old-fashioned Scotch 
air, “ We’re a’ noddin’, nid, nid noddin’.” A storm of 
applause ensued, when she retired. 

A pause followed. “ It is Emeline’s time,” said my 
wife, giving her a significant look ; and leading her up 
to the piano, I whispered to her, “ Now, then, let us 
see what you can do.” 

She selected a plaintive air, and began. It was “ The 
last rose of summer.” She threw her whole soul into it, 
the tears streaming down her cheeks, her voice some- 
times almost inaudible, at other times plaintive, and then 
thrillingly sweet. She just sang herself, her sorrows, 
trials, and crushed hopes. She had learned on Virginia’s 
instrument while Virginia was at boarding-school. There 
was no boisterous applause, but there was intense feel- 
ing ; and when she returned to her seat, every eye was 
fixed on her. She had distanced all competitors, and no 
■ one else now had any desire to show their skill. 

We now prepared to retire, and leave the entertain- 
ment to the younger portion of the company. 

“ Who is that young lady that sang just now ?” asked 
a young gentleman of me, as I stood looking at the gay 
pleasure-seekers. 

“ That is Mr. W ’s step-daughter,” said I. 

“ She is a splendid girl, and a charming singer. 
Strange I never saw her before. Mr. W has intro- 

duced me to Virginia, but I never saw this daughter 
before. Will you introduce me ?” 

“ Certainly, sir.” 

Just then Emeline came along, and seemed, from her 
hurried manner, to have an inkling of what we were 


44 


LEAVES FROM A 


talking about. She was about to pass us, when I took 

her by the hand, and introduced her to Mr. L . They 

fell into a pleasant chat, and I, knowing by experience 
the course of nature, left them to themselves. 

Soon after, they recommenced the “hop,” as they 
called it, and we took our leave. As we were descend- 
ing the steps of the mansion, I looked in through the 
window, and there were Emeline and Edward L en- 

gaged as partners in the merry dance. My wife gave 
me a significant nod, and took my arm with the ex- 
clamation, “ Well, Emeline has made one conquest to- 
night, and I am glad of it.” 

I afterwards heard that Mrs. W had sent her to 

Mrs. L ’s, but it was months before I saw her again. 

About a year afterwards, passing up Broadway with 
a country physician, who wished to see the sights of 
the great metropolis, as we sauntered slowly along, a 
lady, accompanied by a gentleman, politely bowed to 
me. I did not recognize them, but returned the compli- 
ment. I followed them with my eyes until they were 
lost in the crowd. It was Emeline ; but how changed ! 
“ She looks better, is more cheerful, is dressed better, and 
looks happier. Who can that young man be that is with 
her ? Oh, it is Edward L , the young man I intro- 

duced to her the night of the party.” I gave my young 
friend her history as we passed along, as an episode in 
the life of a city physician. 

Next morning, however, before nine o’clock, a car- 
riage drove up to my door, and but jumped a lady, and 
in dashed Emeline, reaching out her hand, and shaking 
mine with a hearty grasp : “ How do you do, Doctor ? 
I am sure that you must believe the ladies think a great 


physician’s journal. 45 

deal of you, when they come so far and so early to see 
you.” 

“ I certainly feel proud of it ; but be seated.” My 
wife now entered, and conversation became general. 
“ But who was that young man you were with yester- 
day ?” 

11 Well, Doctor, you certainly ought to know ; it was 
Edward L .” 

“ What ! keeping company ever since, and not mar- 
ried yet ?” 

“ Oh ! we have had our love-quarrels, and other suitors 
have presented themselves, and so things have gone 
on thus far ; but here is something which will explain 
my visit.” 

It was Emeline’s wedding-card. 

“ Now,” said Emeline, “ you must both come, Edward 
says so, and yesterday he directed me to bring you our 
card myself, as a special mark of his personal feeling, 
and I have come thus early lest I might not see you- 
Eemember, it is two weeks from next Tuesday.” 

“ Then you left home, Emeline, as I suggested to your 
mother ?” 

“ Home I” she said, with a sneer, “ better call it a 
prison, Doctor. And that hateful Virgin., as I sometimes 
called her, would put on such airs, and order me about 
as if I were a servant, and that, too, before young gen- 
tlemen who had actually called to see me — -just to de- 
grade me.” 

“ And did her father permit it ?” 

“ Permit it ! why, he threatened to turn me out of the 
house if I did not obey her, she being the oldest — three 
months the oldest ! And what provoked her the jpost 


46 


LEAVES FROM A 


was, I studied at home, without a teacher, both literary 
attainments and music, faster than she did, though I 
must take care of little Georgie besides ; but I loved 
little Georgie dearly. I never go there now except 
when they are both out ; but I will go to see mother 
and little Georgie, in spite of them, when I choose. I 
shall ever be grateful to you, Doctor, for advising 
mother to let me go away from home. Mother is very 
tender of me ; it is as much as she can bear to have me 
away. You are aware that I am my father’s only child, 
and that makes her the more tender of me. We were 
once very comfortable, but father must come to America, 
and as he knew no business, having been an officer in 
the British army all his life, we did not get along quite 
so well. He died, and left us to struggle on alone. Mr. 

W saw my mother and made proposals of marriage 

repeatedly, but she refused, chiefly on my account. We 
had been waiting for the settlement of grandfather’s es- 
tate for a long time ; and then it was put in chancery — 
English chancery — and hope died out in our hearts. 
What could she do ? I said marry him. Though a mere 
child, she talked to me as if I was a gray-haired matron : 
she had no one else to talk to. We often lay awake 
nights talking about it. She would say, ‘ If I marry him 
and he abuse you, what shall I do then V 1 Marry him,’ 
said I, ‘ and if I like him, well : if not, God will provide 
for the orphan.’ Then folding me to her bosom, and 
kissing me again and again, she would say, 1 1 would 
rather be poor, with my Emeline happy, and where I 
could take care of her, than the wife of the rich Mr. 

W , and my Emeline suffering the cruelties of a 

strange father.’ 


physician’s journal. 


47 


“ She married him and tried to be gay, but it was 
hard work. We were now separated, and knew not the 
future. Then, Doctor, I lost father and mother. I had 
never slept away one night from mother, and I wept 
nearly all night. He soon became so jealous of me that 
knowing mother’s love for me, and her tenderness of me, 
he seemed to wreak his spite on my poor head. This 
made mother miserable and me sad. Then it was that 
you advised mother to let me go away. I can never 
sufficiently thank you for your kind suggestion. I 
begged mother to ask your advice. I had looked all 
around for an adviser, but found none. I thought of 
everybody, and at last selected you, and urged mother 
to go for you. The sickness of Georgie was in part, not 
altogether, a mere ruse to get you there alone with 
mother. It was all my plan. Mother opposed it at 
first, but finally acceded to it. And let me tell you, 
Doctor, Edward knows all about it, and that is why he 
desired me to invite you to our wedding. Now, Doc- 
tor,” said she, “ don’t fail to come ; we shall both look 

for yon, and Mrs. L expects you too ; so, farewell,” 

and bounding away like a fawn, she entered her car- 
riage and drove off towards home. 

The eventful evening came, and with it a crowd of 
carriages in the street where Emeline lived. When we 
arrived, we had to get out about a block from the house 
on account of the carriages. Elbowing our way along 
the street, we were soon in the house, and, after the 
usual preliminaries, were ushered into one of the most 
magnificently-furnished houses in the city. Presently 
the blooming bride and groom appeared. They were a 
beautiful couple. Edward was tall and officer-like in 


48 


LEAVES FROM A 


his bearing, of well-marked features, high forehead, 
small, piercing eye, rather aquiline nose, expressing 
strong passions, but winning manner. Emeline looked 
like a little queen, so coquettish, maidenly, and fair. 
The joy of the soul had transformed the body. 

The morning may be beautiful, but who, save the All- 
seeing One, can tell what the evening’s close shall be ? 
It may be a sunset covering all objects with a halo of 
glory. It may end in a terrific storm. * * * 

Two years elapsed, and two events changed the cur- 
rent of Emeline’s life — an heir, and the great Southern 
(slaveholders’) rebellion. But what have these to do 
with our sketch ? The sequel will show. 

July 15th. — I am now by the side of a sick child, 
whose little spirit is pluming its wings for its flight up- 
ward. My first and last visit, for why deceive now, 
when hope has fled ? This was Emeline’s first-born, con- 
vulsively taking its journey to that “land from whose 
bourne no traveller e’er returns.” The denouement — 
death — has come, and the bereaved in the house and in 
the streets go about mourning. 

“ Trouble never comes singly,” said the young, child- 
less wife. “Edward goes to Washington in three 
weeks. He is bent on going to the war, and I cannot 
persuade him out of it. He has already joined a volun- 
teer company, has been elected captain, and now he feels 
in honor bound to go.” 

Edward was among the first to enlist at the call of 
the President for five hundred thousand volunteers to 
put down the Rebellion. He loved his country, and to 
see that old banner, the nation’s ensign, trampled in the 
dust by traitors, was more than his patriotism could en- 


physician’s journal. 49 

dure, and he resolved to defend it, if need be, even with 
his life. 

The mournful day for his departure arrived. They 
repaired to the steamship. Crowds gathered, on shore 
and on shipboard, to see the gallant soldiers bid adieu to 
their loved ones — perhaps forever. Oh, what a sad 
scene it was for the fathers, mothers, sweethearts, and 
wives ! 

Emeline had painted a beautiful miniature likeness of 
herself and little Edward. She had also made him a 
splendid sword-sash, and placed it around him that 
morning with her own hands. Soon the ponderous 
wheels of the giant ship began to move, warning those 
on board that the time was really come when they must 
part from their friends. Emeline’s heart sank within 
her, and Edward's lip trembled as he took the last kiss 
and embrace of his wife and family — for aught he knew, 
the last on earth. At last the ship began to move from 
the wharf, and Emeline stood, half-fainting, as long as 
she could see Edward waving a last adieu. 

We all watched the vessel until she was nearly out of 
sight, and then slowly retired, turning our footsteps 
homeward. As they were entering the carriage, I saw 
a young gentleman step up and very politely help Eme- 
line into the carriage : then bowing, he walked away. 
We then parted, I with other friends crossing the ferry, 
and she hastening to her home. 

Mrs. L now possessed ample means to enjoy life 

and the fascinating society of the metropolis. She 
seemed to forget that she was a wife and a mother. In 
every gay saloon, party, and company was she found, 
where invitations gave opportunity, until her husband’s 

3 


50 


LEAVES FROM A 


friends and relations began to shun lier, and remarks 
were passed upon her lightness and frivolity of conduct : 
dancing with strange men, with young men of doubtful 
character, until, surprising to say, she became reckless 
of her home and a stranger to virtue. 

Edward fell in the ever-memorable battle of Ball’s 
Bluff. He was gallantly leading his little band (under 
the heroic Colonel Baker) against the foe, when a minie 
ball pierced his breast, passing through the left lung 
and out near the shoulder-blade. He, with other 
wounded soldiers, was removed to a shady grove on ail 
island near the battle-field, and ere his turn came for 
the surgeon to examine and dress the wound, he had 
breathed his last. He lived but three hours after reach- 
ing the grove, and died, a voluntary offering on the 
altar of his bleeding country — thus adding another vic- 
tim to that cruel, wicked rebellion. 

He fell as all true soldiers wish to fall (if fall they 
must), on the battle-field, facing the enemies of his 
country. And although sensible to the last, and fre- 
quently lisping the name of Emeline, there were none 
but soldier hands to wipe the death-damps from his 
brow, as his noble spirit winged its way from earth to 
heaven. 

He sleeps in an honored grave, on the banks of the 
quiet Potomac, and although no marble slab lifts its 
stately head to mark the spot where his ashes lie, yet 
he has a living monument in the tears of a grateful 
people, which will moisten the sod that covers the 
graves of her soldiers. 


physician’s journal. 


51 


LITTLE JEMY, THE BEGGAR-GIRL. 



AFFLUENCE and indigence are the two extremes 
of city life. Few who have not been eye-wit- 
nesses can realize the amount cf poverty, 
wretchedness, and suffering found in all large 
cities ; and the physician’s, more than any other profession 
or calling, is brought into direct contact with them. He 
it is who sees what are to others the hidden mysteries 
of life. It is the physician who visits the hovel, the 
cellar, and the garret, as wrnll as the mansions of wealth 
and opulence, in order to answer the calls of the profes- 
sion of his choice ; and he it is who knows more of the 
mysteries of city life than, perhaps, any other class of 
men. That this is so, we need only to say that it is to 
the physician where confidence is reposed : that the hus- 
band or the wife, the son or the daughter, the maid or 
the servant, and perhaps each in turn, imparts the se- 
crets which are away down deep in the heart, and 
which they and their God only know. The husband 
sees, or imagines he sees, some physical or mental diffi- 
culty or deformity in his wife, or the wife in the hus- 
band. The physician is sent for or called upon at his 
office, the secret is imparted to him and his counsel 
solicited. The young man or maiden, who, by misfor- 
tune or by some false step, have brought upon them- 


52 


LEAVES FROM A 


selves trouble, hastens to the family physician, portrays 
to him their real or imaginary ills, and his advice is 
asked for. Domestic troubles and misunderstandings are 
^also poured into the ear of the physician, and his sug- 
gestions or counsels solicited. Thus it is that the doctor 
is made the receptacle of the most cherished feelings, 
and the deepest secrets of the heart, and thus it is that he 
becomes familiar with the hidden things of life. Secrets 
thus imparted should remain inviolate in his breast to 
the latest period of life. On no occasion, and under no 
circumstances, should the physician reveal what is thus 
confided to him. * * * * * * * 

“ I wonder,” said my wife one morning, just as I was 
about to vault into my carriage, whip in hand, “what 
has become of little Jenny, the beggar-girl. She has 
not been here now for three mornings. She has visited 
us for nearly two months regularly every morning, 
with her little basket, rain or shine, and I quite miss 
the poor little thing. I wonder if she is sick ?” 

“You had better make some inquiries after her,” 
said I. 

“ I shall be very busy to-day, you know. We shall 
have company this afternoon, and it will take me all the 
forenoon to prepare for it.” 

So away I went, thinking no more about it. 

Ah ! how the cares of life, with the pressure of every 
day’s toil, the money-getting, the business projects, the 
pleasure-seeking, and the selfishness of the world, shuts 
out the poor, the outcast, the bereaved, and the suffering 
from that active sympathy, care, and attention which a 
common humanity, to say nothing of Christianity, de- 
mands of us ! 


physician’s journal. 


53 


The day up to one o’clock is passed, and the monotony 
of feeling pulses, examining tongues, various kinds of 
pressure, prescription-writing, advice, and here I am, 
ready for office-practice. 

And the hilarity, the joyous prattle, and laughing 
glee of merry childhood with the more staid and pleas- 
ant repartee, merriment, and- wit of mothers and elder 
sisters, come pealing from all parts of the house, for the 
company have come, and all seem to be making the 
most of life’s enjoyments. 

“ Here is a little boy who wants to see you, Doctor,” 
said a bright-eyed little girl (one of the company), as 
she came bounding into my office. 

I had just left the company, and was now attending 
two office-patients, ladies, each with a sick babe. 

“In a moment, daughter. When I attend to these 
ladies, then bring him in.” 

“ Here he is,” said the little girl, as the ladies had 
left, pushing him in before her. 

The poor child was hatless, shoeless, and his little 
pants, tied with a string around his waist to keep them 
on him, hung in strips around his thin legs. 

He stood with his eyes fixed on the floor, evidently 
afraid to speak, surrounded by three of the little chil- 
dren, who were watching his movements with that 
open-faced, curious look, so characteristic of confiding 
childhood. 

“And now, my little man,” said I, taking him by the 
hand to inspire confidence, “ what is it you want of me ?” 

“Sir,” said he, and the tears gathered in his mild 
blue eyes, “ Jenny is very sick, and sent me for you to 
come and see her.” 


54 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ But who is Jenny ?” I inquired. 

“ The little girl who i\sed to come here with a basket 
and get cold victuals, sir.” 

“ Oh yes, I remember her. How long has she been 
sick, my little man ?” 

“ This is the third day, sir. And mother is sick too ; 
she’s been sick, sir, a long time.” 

“ Now, tell me where you live, my little fellow, and I 
will surely come and see little Jenny.” 

“ No. seventy-three, street, sir.” 

I put it down. “ Now, my little man, you can go 
home, and tell Jenny I shall be there about five o’clock. 
Let me see,” looking at my watch — “ it is now three 
o’clock, and I will be there in two hours. Now you can 
go ;” and away the little fellow ran, his features radiant 
with the apparent success of his errand. 

Five o’clock found me in the vicinity, scrutinizing the 
numbers of the doors for sevent} T -three. The neighbor- 
hood', as I expected, was one of the poorest in Brooklyn, 
and the house where Jenny lived was one of the poorest 
in the neighborhood. 

Passing rows of dirty women, with dirty children ; 
hearing swearing everywhere around ; edging and el- 
bowing my way into a back-yard, where ragged bo}'s 
were pitching and tossing pennies, and blaspheming 
with the gusto of old adepts, I inquired of an aged 
woman, with a babe in her arms, .where the family 
lived. 

“ Down there,” said she, pointing to the back cellar 
door. 

Passing over a debris of coal-ashes and garbage of 
various sorts, I descended the steps, and knocked at the 


physician’s journal. 


55 


half-open door. A nauseous mixture of heat, cooking- 
smells, smoke, and that human effluvia which ever ac- 
companies these, where the poor must live, eat, cook, 
and sleep in one room, almost sickened me. It was 
nearly underground, with but little of heaven’s sunlight 
to cheer the drooping spirits of the inmates. 

“ Come in,” said a feeble female voice, in answer to 
my knock. 

I entered, and there lay little Jenny and her mother 
in one bed, on the floor in a corner of the room. The 
whole furniture of the room consisted of one straw-bed, 
two broken chairs, three cups and two saucers, placed 
on a board which lay across the two chairs to do ser- 
vice as a table, a broken-front stove, the smoke of which 
nearly filled the room, and a few scraps of bread on the 
improvised table. Two other children, the little fellow 
who had been sent for me, and a little girl, the youngest 
of the children, were huddled together. They both sat 
on the floor, each gnawing away at a crust of bread 
with the eagerness of unappeased hunger. 

Jenny now, with a laborious effort, raised herself up 
in her bed, and exclaimed, in a triumphant tone, “ I 
knew he’d come, mother, I knew he’d come ; and here 
he is,” and reached out her little hand in token of 
welcome. 

I examined them both, and found the mother a con- 
firmed consumptive, the disease in its last stages. Her 
poor health had never permitted her to attend to any 
thing save the little domestic duties of her own house ; 
and during the last years of her husband’s life, she was 
scarcely able to attend to these. 

Jenny was laboring under a slight attack of pneu- 


56 


LEAVES FKOM A 


monia inflammation of the lungs), induced by a severe 
cold she had taken through exposure, as she had been 
the only provider for the family, and was often bare- 
footed in the depths of winter. 

I sat down and wrote two prescriptions, and handed 
them to her mother. She looked at the papers wdth a 
mournful face, and began to cry, the tears falling thick 
and fast from her eyes. Little Jenny, seeing her moth- 
er’s deep affliction, crawled up to her, and placing her 
arms around her neck, said, “ Don’t you cry, mother. 
God is good. He will take care of us. Don’t you re- 
member, I read last night, in the 84th Psalm, that ‘ no 
good thing will he withhold from them that walk up- 
rightly ?’ That means, to be good ; don’t it, ma ?” 

Her mother tried to answer, but could not ; her full 
heart prevented. She nodded assent, and turned aside 
but to weep the more. 

“ Ma,” continued little Jenny, “ let us be good, and I 
know God will take care of us.” 

“ What is the matter, my good woman,” said I, “ and 
why do you weep ?” 

“ We’ve no money, sir, to get the medicine with,” was 
her tearful answer. 

Taking the prescriptions, and writing underneath the 
words, “ Charge light,” I returned them to her with suffi- 
cient money to procure them. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said she, and her tears fell more 
profusely than before. 

“ I will come and see you to-morrow,” said I, “ about 
this time, or a little later,” and then left them. 

Next day I called, and found Jenny much worse, and 
the mother no better ; but of her case I had no hopes 


physician’s journal. 5? 

whatever, save as she might be relieved a little of her 
immediate and urgent symptoms. 

Placing my finger on little Jenny’s pulse, I found it 
full and bounding, cough very tight, with much conges- 
tion about the chest — a condition of things I did not ex- 
pect, in view of the medicine I had prescribed the pre- 
vious day. 

“What, no better, Jenny! How is this? You are 
really worse to-day than yesterday.” And I looked 
around for the medicine, but saw no signs of the bottle 
I had ordered. “ Where is your medicine ?” said I. 

The poor child began to cry as if her heart would 
break. 

“ What is the matter, Jenny?” 

“ Oh, sir,” said she, sobbing convulsively, and catching 
her breath, striving to speak continuously, “ you must 
not think hard of us, Doctor, but we did not get the 
medicine.” 

“ Did not get the medicine !” said I, rather sharply, 
which caused the pent-up feelings of the mother’s heart 
to overflow. Feeling chagrined at being, as I then 
thought, trifled with, I remarked, somewhat hastily, 
“ Why did you send for me, if you are not going to fol- 
low my advice and directions ? Did I not furnish you 
the money to purchase the medicine with ?” 

“ You did,” she sobbed, but could say no more. 

Ah ! could I but have lifted the curtain and beheld 
the deep pent-up feelings of her soul, my language would 
not have been that of censure and reproach, but of ten- 
derness and sympathy. 

At this stage little Jenny spoke out, and at once 
solved the mystery. “ Doctor,” said she, “ we were all 

3 * 


58 


LEAVES FROM A 


hungry, having not had any thing to eat for supper the 
night before, nor any breakfast in the morning ; so 
mother took the two shillings you gave her to buy the 
medicine with, and got bread for us to eat. I know it 
was wrong not to get the medicine, Doctor, but we were 
so hungry, what else could we do V 1 

This simple statement touched a chord which vibrated 
to my very soul, and brought the tears gushing from 
my eyes. “ Never mind, Jenny, you did perfectly right. 
I will get the medicine myself, and you shall not want 
bread hereafter, I hope.” 

Stepping into my carriage, I drove immediately to 
my office, prepared the medicine, and with plain direc- 
tions sent it to her. My wife informed the wife of our 
good pastor of the circumstances of the family, who, in 
company with her, visited little Jenny. Suffice it to say, 
that their wants were abundantly supplied, and in a few 
days Jenny got well, but the mother rapidly approached 
the banks of Death’s dark river. 

She had been a poor Irish emigrant-girl, and had come 
to this country before her marriage, without relations, 
in company with a poor family. On the passage out, in 
a terrible storm, as she had informed me, a wave, that 
dashed over the ship with a fearful rush, had carried her 
from near the bows of the ship, where she was standing, 
towards the stern, and she came near being washed 
overboard. A gallant young Irishman, seeing her peril- 
ous condition, at the risk of his life caught hold of and 
rescued her. This first, and somewhat novel introduc- 
tion between the young emigrants, was improved by a 
further acquaintance, then ripened into love, and finally 
ended in their marriage soon after landing. 


PHYSIC I AX’S JOURNAL. 


59 


He was a faithful, industrious husband and father ; 
but disease and death left her a widow in a strange 
land, with four children, one of whom had already been 
placed by the side of his father. She bore up heroically 
for a time, toiling night and day to support her children ; 
but she, too, sickened, and one by one the little articles 
of furniture left her by her husband had gone to buy 
food and medicine ; and their little Jenny, the beggar- 
girl, was all her support. . 

As she from day to day returned with her basket and 
store, her mother, faint and trembling as she took from 
the basket the cold meat, potatoes, and bread, would 
find the big tears frequently chasing each other down 
her pale and care-worn cheeks. But they were tears of 
joy — joyful in the fact of having before her the means 
to satisfy the hunger of herself and children, but far 
more in having for her daughter the sweet-tempered, 
good-natured little Jenny. 

Every morning, whether it was cold or warm, raining or 
shining, little Jenny was found, with basket on her arm, 
making her regular calls ; and the sweet, clear notes of 
her voice might daily be heard above the noise and din 
of city life — “Any cold victuals to-day V 7 

Few, even the most miserly, had the hardihood to dis- 
miss her without giving her something. Little Jenny 
became a daily visitor at my house, and we looked for 
and expected to hear her melodious voice as much as we 
expected our dinner. It was not only a pleasure, but a 
real satisfaction to give to her. 

Jenny did two things for their support. She gathered 
up daily what cold victuals she could from the charita- 
ble, carried them home for the children and her mother ; 


60 


LEAVES FROM A 


and then she washed for several ladies a few things of 
a light character, such as handkerchiefs, men’s and wo- 
men’s collars, etc. This furnished the family with, the 
rent-money. 

A few weeks following my first visit, I accompanied 
a benevolent and influential lady in the neighborhood to 
see the family. Jenny was washing, her sleeves rolled 
up, standing by her tub on a small soap-box, and the 
wash-tub on the two inevitable chairs, like a little 
woman. 

“I have brought a friend to see you, Jenny,” said I, 
as I advanced towards her. 

“Thank you, sir,” and she wiped the suds off her 
arms and hands on her apron and gave me her hand. 

“ How much can you make a week by washing ?” 
said the lady. 

“Sometimes fifty cents and sometimes only three 
shillings, ma’am,” said Jenny. “ That pays the rent, 
ma’am.” 

“ What do you do for clothes ?” said the lady. 

“ Sometimes the ladies I wash for give us some, and 
sometimes we have none ; but we then do the best we 
can — ” 

“ Do without,” interrupted the lady. 

The lady looked at Jenny, then at the poor children 
playing on the floor in their rags — who looked up into 
the lady’s face with a listless stare — and then at the 
poor sick woman on the pallet of straw, and turned 
away, wiping her eyes. 

“Jenny,” said the lady, as she turned again to this 
child of sorrow, “ you have had a hard life of it, wash- 
ing and begging, with hunger, and nakedness, and ex- 


physician’s jouknal. 


61 


posure. Now, Jenny,” said she, “ I will give you every 
week more than you can earn by washing, and you can 
go and tell this to the ladies you wash for ; and you need 
not go out with your basket any more, for I will see to 
that, too : and as for these poor children, we will see 
what can be done for them also.” 

Jenny looked bewildered, evidently unable to realize 
the full measure of the promised blessing. 

“What!” said she, placing her hands on her sides, 
like an old woman, and looking skeptically at the lady, 
“ not beg any more ? nor wash any more ?” and she 
stood thinking about it, her eyes fixed on the floor. 

“ Yes,” said the lady, “ I mean what I say.” 

Jenny looked up into the lady’s face, and with a swell- 
ing heart and eyes full of tears, caught her hand, kissed 
it, and then turned away, leaning her head against the 
wall, and gave full vent to her tears of joy. 

The lady clothed the children, provided the family 
with food, sent a bed and bedstead for the sick woman, 
and a small bed for the children, while Jenny’s labor 
now was to wash for the family, clean up, and cook for 
the children, and wait on and attend her consumptive 
mother. Enough labor, surely, for more than one grown 
person, how much less could it be expected of a little 
girl? But Jenny, night and day, bore up under her 
burdens, while the little room assumed an air of neat- 
ness, and wholesomeness, and cleanliness older house- 
keepers might profitably imitate. 

The sick mother drew near her end, and the good 
lady and myself were called to her death-bed about one 
month from her first introduction into the family. It 
was approaching the shadows of evening ; the sun had 


62 


LEAVES FROM A 


nearty disappeared behind the western horizon, and 
angry patches of clouds were seen hurrying from the 
distant east, sending scattering drops of rain, and the 
fitful wind moaned sadly through the streets, door-cracks, 
and alleys. 

Jenny had come for me, and putting her into my car- 
riage, and calling for the good lady, we were soon by 
the side of the bed of death, for such it proved. 

“ I’m so glad you have come !” said she, panting for 
breath, and hardly able to articulate. “Jenny, light 
the candle,” said she, “ it’s very dark.” 

The candle was lighted and placed near her bed. 

“Where are the children, Jenny?” faintly said the 
sick one. 

“Asleep, mother. Do you want them, mother dear ?” 

She nodded “ Yes.” 

They were brought to her, rubbing their eyes and 
yawning, being waked out of a sound sleep. 

“Maggy darling,” said she, “kiss mother,” and she 
threw her wasted, bony arm around the half-sleeping 
form of the child, while Maggy, almost unconsciously, 
threw her tiny arms around the neck of her mother and 
kissed her. 

“ Poor orphan children !” said she ; “ God protect you,” 
and she cast her pearly eye upward, “from the rude 
blasts and rough usage your poor mother has endured. 
Jenny,” said she, “you’ll soon be the only mother these 
little ones will have” — she paused a moment — “ except 
these kind friends, and you must take care of them, and 
never lose sight of them.” 

“ 0 mother, mother !” said Jenny, “ are you going to 


physician's journal. 


63 


die and leave ns ?” and she fell on her mother’s neck 
and cried bitterly. 

“Don’t cry, child,” said the mother, “but listen to 
me ; it is the last you will hear on earth from your 
mother.” 

“ I won’t cry, I won’t cry any more, dear mother,” 
and she choked and forced herself into calmness by 
every effort possible. 

“Watch over little Tony, Jenny. I have more 
trouble of mind about him than you or Maggy. He may 
be led away with bad boys. Go to the Sabbath-school. 
I was brought up to attend it, and I want you to go and 
take the children, if you can. Tony, come here.” 

He crept up weeping, and kissed his mother, and 
promised to be a good boy and remember his mother, 
and never forget his prayers. 

Every word she spoke was with great effort, and she 
now sank back in her bed exhausted. She closed her 
eyes and her lips moved. When she opened her eyes 
the lady said : 

“ Madam, is your trust in the Saviour, in this your 
last hour ?” 

She smiled, looked up, and whispered, “Affliction 
drove me, years ago, to the ‘ Rock of Ages.’ My waver- 
ing, sinful heart, my sliding steps, find sure trust and 
anchorage there ; and I go to meet a dear mother, who, 
from the other side of the sea, went up to her Redeemer. 

* I go willingly, gladly, with only a mother’s sorrow at 
leaving little helpless children. But God’s will be 
done 1” 

She then gradually sank away. Her little Maggy 
had fallen asleep close to her bosom, while Jenny and 


64 : 


LEAVES FROM A 


Tony watched her as she quietly went down into the 
peaceful Jordan of death. 

She sleeps peacefully in Greenwood Cemetery, through 
the liberality and kindness of friends, and the two chil- 
dren, haying been provided for by the same friends for 
years, are often led by the hand of Jenny to visit the 
lonely spot, while she recounts to them the history, suf- 
ferings, bereavements, and struggles for them, of her 
whom they remember as their sick mother. 

Years have rolled on, and the Sunday-school and the 
day-school have improved the mind and the heart of 
Jenny, and at the time we write she is the wife of one 
of our most estimable citizens, happy, contented, and 
respected, blessed with the love of a kind husband, a 
generous share of this world’s goods, and troops of 
friends. 

Her mild temper and amiable disposition, her sympa- 
thetic, affectionate, and obliging manner, together with 
her industrious habits and finely-cultivated mind, which 
is the true beauty, made Jenny a prize worth taking. 
But, unlike many similarly conditioned, she never for- 
gets her origin, nor turns away a beggar-child, remem- 
bering that she herself was once “Jenny, the little beg- 
gar-girl.” 



physician’s journal. 


65 


THE SECOND WIFE AND THE INFIDEL’S DEATH-BED. 


§ HE sun had just sunk, pale and lustreless, be- 
neath the horizon, and the cold, wintry twilight 
was deepening over the sky, as, after my last 
call for the day, I reached home. My hostler — 
a faithful fellow, caring for my black pony as a mother 
for her child, and apparently finding an affectionate de- 
light in presenting him to me every morning with hair 
as glossy as the dark locks of a maiden fresh from her 
toilet — was ready for his charge, and, as I stepped out 
of the carriage, remarked : 

“ Doctor, I hope you may not be called out to-night,” 
turning, at the same time, a significant look about him 
on the darkening sky. 

His ominous words appeared to awaken a half-unreal- 
ized presentiment of a coming tempest that had formed 
itself in my own mind, but I answered him with a seem- 
ingly careless, 

“ Why so, John ?” 

“We shall have a storm,” he replied, “before the 
watchman has finished his first beat ” 

“ I fear I shall have to treat you for disease of the 
brain; John,” I said, thinking I would try his faith in 
his own prognostications ; but, though he received the 


66 


LEAVES FROM A 


banter with a smile, he repeated, as he turned away, 
the hope that I might not be called abroad. 

“ Well, John,” thought I, as I observed that the first 
stars of evening were dimmed by hazy clouds, and that 
an easterly wind was setting in, * you may indeed prove 
a philosopher this time.” 

Entering my residence, I was soon comfortably seated, 
in slippers and dressing-gown, before the brisk fire that 
was glowing in the grate, while my eldest daughter, 
now in her year, leaned on my shoulder, chat- 

ting away the few minutes while we awaited the sum- 
mons to tea. 

That agreeable duty having at length presented itself 
and been duly discharged, I made some evening calls ; 
and when, at ten, I was driving homeward from the last 
of them, the heavens had become quite black, and a 
northeast wind was eddying in the streets and blowing 
fiercely round the corners. I could not help remarking 
to my wife, as the hour of retiring arrived — 

“ This is a bad night to be a physician.” But that 
thought called up others, and I proceeded in a sort of 
soliloquy : “ Yet, why should I complain ? Is not my 
mission a blessed one ? Is not the saving of life next to 
the saving of the soul ? As light is made more appa- 
rent by surrounding darkness, so a good deed derives 
increased value from being performed in a gloomy hour. 
Surely, one might rejoice to exchange, even to-night, 
the warm bed for the bleak street, if, by so doing, he 
could save from the grave the pet of some fond mother, 
or the strong man, the stay of some loving and depend- 
ent wife.” 

I fell asleep ; but midnight found me awake again, 


physician’s journal. 


67 


and the storm was now beating against my bedroom 
windows. I endeavored to compose myself again, for I 
needed slumber. 

Ding, ding, ding ! just then resounded my office-bell. 
I soon apprehended the true state of the case. This was 
the second time the bell had rung surely some one was 
very sick, perhaps dying, and on such a night as this ! 
Turning on the gas, I was soon dressed, and from my 
office-window inquired the caller’s errand. A woman in 
furs, and closely hooded, replied from the porch : 

“I fear James is dying, Doctor! His manner is so 
strange I cannot bear to be alone with him. If you 
will visit him now, you shall be paid any fee that so tr} T - 
ing a time as this makes it fit you should demand.” 

Recognizing the voice, I understood the matter, and 
answered : “ I will be with you in a moment.” 

Muffled up in my cap and warmest overcoat, I was 
soon tracking with my footprints the newly-fallen snow, 
the driving flakes, still falling, almost blinding my sight, 
as I hurried along with the anxious wife to the death- 
bed of her husband. 

“ I left him alone, Doctor, and we must be as quick 
as possible,” were the words of the woman shivering 
upon my arm in the stormy December night — she who 
was soon to be alone in a sense which none so truly as 
the wife, loving and bereft, can understand. 

When I looked into the face of James H , I knew 

that before that night was ended his wife would be a 
widow. 

“ 0 Doctor !” said the sufferer to me, as I stood by 
him examining his pulse, “ I am so glad you have come !” 
But then, almost in an instant, his manner changed, and, 


68 


LEAVES FROM A 


as if I had been as suddenly transformed in his sight, 
with a wild terror in his dying eyes, he, in a husky 
voice, commanded me to “ Be gone 1” 

“Another scene,” thought I, “ in the life of the city 
physician.” 

For a month previous I had been assiduously attend- 
ing James H , but no human skill could save him. 

Already in the last stage of consumption when I first 
saw him, his lungs were even then diseased beyond the 
possibility of cure. While thus attending him, I had 
learned his history. 

The child of pious parents, he learned at a mother's 
knee to say, “ Our Father, who art in heaven.” In the 
Sabbath-school, when a boy, he had often sung, “I 
want to be an angel.” When a young man he served 
as librarian of the Episcopalian Sabbath-School in the 
church on the corner of J street, and he was es- 

teemed by all who knew him. A few years passed, and 
James followed sorrowfully the remains of his mother to 
the resting-place of the dead. Five years later he again 
stood in the attire of deep mourning beside an open 
grave : this time it was his father who was consigned 
to the embrace of earth. Both his parents had fallen 
victims to consumption, and James was now an orphan. 

But the vivacity of youth soon brushed away his 
tears ; and besides, at this time, his heart leaned confi- 
dently for support on that God of whom his parents had 
not failed to teach him. Following assiduously his oc- 
cupation as a painter, he soon became, not wealthy, in- 
deed, but at least independent, and possessed of a skill 
in his calling which to many a man has been the magic 
wand, filling hand and purse with gold. James H 


physician’s journal. 


ti 9 


was no ordinary workman. He was one of those men 
of genius whose services are always in demand, so that 
he never, through want of work, passed an idle day. 
His character he preserved from defilement. Esteemed 
for his virtues, moving in the circle of some of the best 
families, and being, withal, an attractive young man, 
possessing in marked degree those traits which always 
win the maiden’s heart, he was the welcome acquaint- 
ance and companion of more than one handsome and ac- 
complished young woman. He was liberal in his views 
and plans, and yet without that prodigality which is at 
once the common but base counterfeit of generosity. 
Seeing beneath the surface of things, to him the gay 
saloon, with its intoxicating glass, beaded with spark- 
ling but maddening wine, was in reality a vestibule of 
hell, and he resolutely turned away from its gilded 
portals. 

Prudently saving his means, he was soon able to be- 
gin business on a small scale in his own name, and the 

showy sign of “ James H , House and Sign Painter,” 

met the eye of the passer in a street alive with trade. 
Business grew upon his hands. The plain pocket-mem- 
orandum of his earlier experience was superseded by 
the office journal’ and ledger : bank deposits and title- 
deeds to real estate followed in due course. But money 
was not his God, and religious and social duties were 
not forgotten because his avocations were engrossing, 
nor even because wealth flowed in their train. 

James H did not pass untouched through the 

flashing light of all the bright eyes he met, nor confer 
the attentions due the gentler sex without admiring at 
the same time. But he was not one of those serpents 


70 


LEAVES FROM A 


in human form who could throw a spell of fascinations 
around the soul of a beautiful woman, only to leave that 
soul to a long existence of unsoothed agony and una- 
vailing remorse ! Woman, however, if, perforce, less 
manifestly, yet just as really woos as man ; and more 
than one fair damsel, we have reason to believe, had 
leaned indicatively on James’s arm, or in the drawing- 
room had, not unintentionally, displayed to his eye her 
jewelled fingers. Yet “ matches” appear indeed to be, 
as the adage has it, “ made in heaven ;” certain it is 

that James found at last his affinity. Elizabeth S 

was a modest, unassuming girl, but a fitting helper for 
a man of real and not merely factitious life and charac- 
ter, as was James H . 

A spacious and well-furnished dwelling was made 
ready for the painter’s bride — “that was to be” — and 

one pleasant day in autumn James H led to the 

altar as estimable a girl as ever wore bridal wreath. 
She, too, was a member of the Episcopalian church ; she 
had worshipped at the same sanctuary and under the 
same ministrations as her husband, and, during their 
life, his parents. The long-known and beloved pastor of 
the flock, now an aged man, whose hair was white with 
the snows of many winters, conducted the marriage cer- 
emony, and through the beautiful and imposing forms 
of the Episcopalian ritual they “ twain were made one.” 
A few minutes more, and the rattling of carriage-wheels 
over the “ cobbles” told the commencement of the wed- 
ding-tour. 

Elizabeth S became a pattern wife. “Home, 

sweet home !” was no impossible ideal picture, but a 
daily and prized reality, to him who, after the business 


physician’s journal. 


71 


of the day, sought his dwelling, at No. 90 M 

avenue. 

Time passed swiftly away, and four children gathered 
about the table and at the family altar. Fourteen anni- 
versaries of the wedding-day came around, while yet 
the skies had scarcely shown a cloud ; but during the 
fifteenth it became evident that a serious malady had 
fastened itself upon the constitution of the wife and 
mother. Every thing that held out a prospect of cure — 
medicine, travel, inland mountain air — was tried, but in 
vain. She rapidly declined ; her hand was feverish, 
her bright eye sunken : there was no hope. 

And now, at the bedside of a mother, four children 

are sobbing in the deepest sorrow. Elizabeth H is 

dying, but with a mind calm and peaceful, because filled 
with the bright.vision and hope of the better world. The 
little ones receive their last kiss and a dying mother’s 
“ Good-by !” the husband the last fond pressure of the 
cold and almost powerless hand, and a “ Farewell !” 
which ended with the earnest solicitation, “ Meet me in 
heaven !” The tears of husband and children fell una- 
vailingly : the flickering lamp had gone out — the spirit 
had fled. 

Again James H stood by an open grave, and now 

doubly bereft, for it was as if a part of his own being 
and life were laid in the tomb. 

This was the saddest of all his experience ; and the 
companionship of his children — two daughters, now re- 
spectively of thirteen and ten summers, and two sons of 
six and four years — did not fill up in the parental heart 
the terrible void which death had made there. 

Some there are who desert the paths of virtue and 


72 


LEAVES FROM A 


lose their faith in God, while warmed with the sunshine 
of prosperity, or hurried on in the whirl of pleasures ; 
hut there are others who make these fatal mistakes even 
in the depths of adverse fortune, or when, bereft and 
broken-hearted, their need of support and guidance is 
greatest. 

After the death of his wife the seat of J ames H * 

at church was frequently observed to be vacant, though 
he was still a kind father and a Christian gentleman. 
He loved his children, and found happiness in their so- 
ciety ; but there was a vacuum in his heart which even 
they could not fill, and, at length, it could have been no- 
ticed that the evenings more frequently recurred on 
which he absented himself from his shattered domestic 
circle. There were gay coteries in which the society of 
the young widower was courted — ay ! even while yet 
the passer-by, noting the fresh earth that covered the 
remains of his beloved wife, would be likely to remark 
that there was a new-made grave. 

A year passed, and great were the changes that 
marked its course. At its close, the two eldest children 
— the daughters — had already been three months at 

boarding-school, in the pleasant village of R . Their 

youthful spirits rose, with the natural buoyancy of early 
life, above their sorrow ; and that they were motherless, 
was now told only by their mourning apparel. Were 
not they pardonable ? Why should childhood be sad ? 
It is the Spring of life, and its only Spring ; let it be 
bright with smiles, and enlivened with joyous carols. 

A neat white marble slab now marked the spot where 

the mortal remains of Elizabeth H slept the sleep of 

the grave. But she, strange to say, seemed already for- 


physician’s journal. 


73 


gotten, and by those who had so passionately loved her. 
Alas ! how readily some hearts grow cold ! At length, 
during an evening somewhat wearily spent at home, 
J ames H finally said to himself : 

“ I must have a wife. This way of living is too lonely. 
Elizabeth has been dead now for two long years. Here 
is a spacious dwelling, and well furnished ; but it is 
empty . 11 

And then he ruminated. There was Miss Josephine 
A , accomplished in her manners, ready in conver- 

sation, and gifted with a peculiar power of entertaining 
in company : then she could play well on the piano and 
sang delightfully. Why had she never married ? But 
then, it was no fault of hers. She had had numerous 
suitors, but she was also a woman of taste, ready, per- 
haps, to flirt with the fellows, but too wise to wed any 
one who might chance to offer : and this proud and ac- 
complished being — sought by so many and never yet 
made a conquest of — had not she made him know al- 
ready, by various tokens, that she would yield to him 
her heart and hand ? 

It was true that she had. Josephine A was one 

of those managing women who know but too fatally 
well how to entrap the man on whom they may fix — not 
their love, which is commonly a missing article with 
them, but — their ambition. Such look far less for a 
congenial heart, or for true companionship, than for 
wealth, or position, or a hint of future fame ; and accord- 
ingly, when their first step is achieved, and marriage 
places the man’s wealth or powers at their command, 
too late the unhappy dupe finds that heart and compan- 
ionship were no more brought to the union than they 

4 


74 


LEAVES FROM A 


were sought in it — that, in a word, instead of making 
for himself a home, he has but assigned away himself 
and his to the gratification of a grasping, sordid, and 
heartless nature, and become the menial and servitor of 
another’s purposes. 

It was towards a union with one whose disposition 
wore the unfortunate cast we have endeavored to paint 

that James H was now being lured. The lures, 

too, proved successful : the man who sought companion- 
ship, and kindliness, and love, was made to believe that 
he had at last really found them all — and in such abun- 
dant measure ! 

In a gay company, receiving the congratulations of 

the fashionable, James II appeared, for the second 

time in his life, in the part of bridegroom. Leaning on 
his arm when the ceremony — this time conducted in the 
parlor of the bride’s home, and among her companions 
— was concluded, stood the second wife, Josephine 

A . She was a woman of height above the medium, 

yet without being tall, of regular and almost handsome 
features, with a well-developed form, and, in fact, much 
grace of movement and dignity of manner. But, could 
the departed Elizabeth have entered that room, and be- 
held this proud woman in the luxurious rather than 
tasteful trappings of the occasion, would she not have 
wept ? She must, if she could have foreknown what 
was but too effectually sealed from the eyes of James — 
that he was throwing his life and himself away. For, 
under the artistic getting-up and correct deportment of 
the new wife, there did not merely lie a void of religious 
principle, but, along with ambition, cunning, and greed, 
there lurked, moreover, an intense worldliness, arid a 


physician’s journal. 


75 


positive hatred of the lowly and pure spirit of Christian- 
ity. Bouts, assemblies, and even the private party, if 
it brought but her favorite waltz — these had inexpressi- 
ble attractions for Josephine. And so, even after the 
honeymoon was over, the home of James H re- 

mained well-nigh uninterruptedly the scene of festivity. 

The mansion, No. 90 M Avenue, had once again, 

as so often latterly, been brilliant with lights and merry 
with music and dancing, until long after midnight. 
When, next morning’, the sun was already high in the 
heavens, and while his Josephine was yet sleeping off 
the effects of the previous night’s dissipation, James 

H turned the corner of A street, on his way to 

his place of business, and with aching head, and aching 
heart as well, revolved in his mind the homely adage : 
“ Marry in haste, and repent at your leisure.” 

“ I have not heard a sermon in six months, now,” he 
mused. Business interrupted the thread of his thoughts, 
but it was resumed when, at evening, he wended his 
way again homeward. 

For several days after, Josephine noticed an unusual 
gloominess in the manner of her husband. Her artful- 
ness was not long in ferreting out at least one promi- 
nent cause : he had become sad and thoughtful, and his 
religioug convictions were returning to their hold upon 
his mind. 

“ This must be stopped,” she resolved, and she set 
herself at work resolutely to effect her purpose. Her- 
self, as well as her brothers and sisters, had been, from 
early life, trained and confirmed in infidelity. Availing 
herself now of their aid, as well as of her own skill, she 
succeeded in enveloping her husband’s mind in confu- 


76 


LEAVES FROM A 


sion, then in doubt and unbelief, and at last completed 
her conquest by confirming him in infidelity. 

About two years after his second marriage, James 

H met with a former friend and fellow-member of 

the church in J street. The conversation turning 

at length on religious matters, James boldly avowed his 
infidelity. His old friend said to him at parting — 

“ Your doctrine may answer while you live, but it will 
not sustain you in a dying hour.” 

James defiantly replied, “ Sir, if I should die before 
you, I want you to come and see me pass through that 
ordeal. I will prove to you that the infidel’s death, too, 
can be a triumphant one.” 

As James H walked briskly away, he gave now 

and then a dry cough — the unsuspected proof that even 
now his extravagant living was developing the disease 
he had inherited from his parents. His two motherless 
boys had died, soon after his second marriage, of scarlet 
fever ; and his daughters were away from home, at a 
boarding-school. Thus he had realized, by his marriage 
with Josephine, something far different from the home 
which he had so fondly anticipated. In fact, real home 
influences, those powerful preservatives against crimes 
and follies, were quite withdrawn from him, and, in the 
round of artificial gayety alternating with the dreary 
solitude of a loveless abode, James H , while insen- 

sibly sliding into a fatal disease, had also become, socially 
and morally, a man very different from his former self. 

“ James, it is evident, will soon die,” said Josephine 
to a brother of hers who called one morning on his way 
to business, “ and I fear he may prove false to his pres- 
ent views ; he was very pious in his youth.” 


physician’s journal. 77 

The failing husband was accordingly watched: no 
religious influences were permitted about him. When 
he betook himself to his bed, his wife, to insure the 
diversion of his mind from his early convictions, would 
seat herself in full dress by his bedside, and occupy his 
mind by reading to him a succession of exciting novels. 

0 humanity ! of what depths of heartlessness art thou 
capable ! 

James showed no relentings until a few days before 
his death : then he was found praying. This was a 
fatal thrust at the triumph his new friends had hoped to 
secure. His wife’s brothers made arrangements still 
more strict to prevent his communicating with any per- 
son of religious tendencies ; and knowing me as a mem- 
ber of an evangelical church, they gave orders that, at 
my next succeeding call, my bill for services should be 
paid, with the request that I should discontinue my 
visits. 

But the hardest hearts have their seasons of relent- 
ing. Josephine began at length to realize her position. 
“ I am,” she said to herself, “this dying man’s wife. 

1 have made him what he is ! Great God 1” she ex- 
claimed, as the truth overwhelmed her, and she fell in- 
sensible upon the floor. The servants, bathing her fore- 
head, revived her ; and though no one else knew the 
cause of this sudden illness, yet from that time she was 
a changed woman. Her heart warmed towards the hus- 
band she had destroyed ; her course of action was de- 
cided on, and kept the secret of her own breast. 

On the occasion of the next visit I afterwards made, 
she was alone with her husband. It was the night be- 
fore that of his death : he seemed better. Josephine 


Y8 LEAVES FROM A 

made known to me the wish of her brothers that I should 
discontinue my visits, at the same time declaring her 
reluctance to acquiesce in such a course. Then, as she 
made an errand out of the room, I was left alone with 
my patient ; and he briefly gave me, reader, the history 
which I have given you. It was hardly finished when 
he was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which ex- 
hausted his strength. I could hold no further communi- 
cation with him ; and as his wife, fearing discovery by 
her brothers, dared not permit me to remain longer, I 
left him, though he was apparently almost in the agonies 
of death. 

There was a great party on the night of the 25th at 
the residence of one of the brothers of the afflicted 

Josephine A . A sister was that night wedded to 

a fascinating young widower, whose early life had been 
devoted to Christian principles, but whom she had im- 
bued with those of infidelity. One sister only was not 
present at this merry gathering — Iter husband was dan- 
gerously sick. Nine o’clock in the evening found the 
invalid rapidly failing. At eleven o’clock his look be- 
came wild : with an unwonted strength and in an ex- 
cited manner, he threw his arms about, and in a husky, 
whispered voice, for he could speak no louder, he would 
say, “ Oh, wife, you have ruined me ! I am lost. My 
God ! must I die ?” The spirit was shrinking from its 
vision of a terrible eternity. His wife, not wishing to 
send a servant, since all had received the charge against 
admitting any one of religious views, hastened herself, 
alone and in terror, for me. I repaired with her, as al- 
ready related, to their dwelling. 


physician’s journal. 


97 


And while around that lonely house the wind was 
howling, and the fury of a winter’s storm filled the air, 

I saw James H die, and with still more blackened 

heavens weighing down over his passing spirit. Such 
a death I desire not to witness again ! The unhappy 
man would cry out for mercy, and the next moment 
curse the Cross, and Him who, to bless mankind, had 
hung upon it. He was in a moral delirium. At times, 
I seemed as a devil before him, and his wife as a fiend 
of torture. Lifting his skeleton hand, while he directed 
upon us a ghastly and terrified look, he would motion us 
to begone. After one of these paroxysms, his ^arm fell 
by his side, and his look became fixed. I felt his pulse : 
he was dead. His dark hair, thrown back upon the 
pillow, revealed a full and well-formed forehead ; his 
beard was slightly touched with gray ; and in their ex- 
treme pallor, the fixed features of the corpse wore an 
air of distinction. In that wasted face there were still 
lines of beauty. 

“ Is it possible,” I mused, “ that this dead form before 
me, the soul that animated it now lost, was once James 

H , the pious attendant on Sabbath-school and church 

services ? Where are the mother’s prayers ? — the dying 
appeal of his once loved Elizabeth, the bride of his 
youth ? Alas ! all agonies to save us are fruitless when 
we will our own ruin.” 

Josephine having fainted, I applied restoratives, and, 
when she had recovered, left her to convey the sad in- 
telligence to the members of the household. 

It was half-past three in the morning when I reached 
home. The snow was still falling, and the wind was 
whirling it through the air. “ Would that John’s wish 


80 


LEAVES FROM A 


had been realized !” I said aloud to myself, as, pulling 
off my glove, I commenced to search for my night-key ; 
“ would that I had not been called out to-night ! What, 
since I left my bed, has passed before my eyes ? The 
death-scene of an infidel ! — and no pen can portray its 
awfulness.” It was with difficulty that I found sleep, 
my mind had been so wrought upon. 

Breakfast over, in the morning, I called my family 
about me, and related to wife and children the expe- 
rience of the night. In that morning’s prayers, which 
had been preceded by the reading of the seventeenth 
chapter of St. John’s gospel, evidently the petition of 
every heart was, “ Keep me, 0 Lord, from the evil that 
is in the world !” 

A blooming girl of seventeen was gayly chatting with 
her schoolmates in the drawing-room of the Seminary 

in the village of R , when an envelope, marked with 

a dark border, was handed to her. She hastily broke 
the seal, and commenced to read. A few lines only were 
perused, when she sank down in a chair, and, covering 
her face with her hands, wept in passionate grief. Her 
father was dead : she and her sister were without a 

home. The lonely, bereaved daughters of James H 

fell asleep that night in each other’s arms, with their 
heads upon one pillow, and that wet with their tears. 

Time passed on. And now, in the parlor of No. 90, 
M Avenue, on a warm summer’s afternoon, an in- 

valid lady might have been seen sitting, bolstered up 
with pillows, in an easy chair. Near by her were two 
young ladies, the elder about twenty, the other but a 


physician’s journal. 


81 


few years younger. They were modest, unassuming 
girls, with light-blue eyes and fair complexions. 

“ It is now more than three years since your father 
died, Elizabeth,' ” said the invalid, addressing the elder 
of the girls : “ since that time I have endeavored to be 
a mother to you ; I have tried to make you forget that 
your own mother sleeps in the cold earth. Now, I must 
soon leave you. The physician attending me says my 
disease is cancer of the stomach; and with such a 
malady it is certain that I cannot survive long. I must 
soon leave you, and you will then be again, and too 
truly, motherless. But trust in that God who has prom- 
ised to be a father to the fatherless, and a mother to the 
motherless, and all will then be well. But, my dear 
children, shun infidelit}' : I know the insidious influ- 
ences and the terrible hold of unbelief but too well, for 
it came near proving my ruin also, as it did that of your 
unhappy father. I feel a hope that I have found forgive- 
ness, even for sins as great as mine. — But I am very 
weak, and must lie down.” 

The beautiful daughters of James H assisted the 

once haughty, but now feeble and failing Josephine, to 
her couch. 

“ Thanks ! I am saved I” said a dying woman not many 
days afterwards — one in whose pale face there still lin- 
gered a strange, and now almost startling beauty. By 
her bedside stood the physician who had attended her 
husband in his last hours. With a countenance beaming 
with gratitude, she looked in his face and said, “ Sir, I 
owe much to you : I have found a faith in Christ that 
sustains me in this trying hour.” Then looking upon 

4 * 


82 


LEAVES FROM A 


her two step-daughters, who stood weeping near her, 
she said, “ Children, I ruined your father : can you — will 
you, forgive me V 1 They sobbed their forgiveness in her 
ears. “ Can this indeed be me V’ she exclaimed ; and 
then added, “ Yes, it is : thanks ! I am saved \ n 

These were her last words ; and soon closed in death 
were the eyes of the wrongly educated — the deceived 
and deceiving — but lovely, and at last penitent, Jose- 
phine A . 

"Oh! be her guilt forgiven ! 

Her dovelet bears an olive-bough. 

To make her peace with Heaven.” 



PHYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 


83 


MY FIRST CASE OF POISONING. 



r OUTH, too often the least heeded, is always the 
most precious, as it is also the most portentous 
season of life. Its joys — how many they are ! 
how vivid and how various ! In that sunny 
spring-time of being, how sweetly time glides on ! 
Life is then like the playful little streamlet, far up in 
the quiet mountain defile, murmuring its sweet notes, 
and hurrying on in the sunbeams. But anon comes a 
great change : the before isolated streamlet loses itself 
amid the many gathered and gathering waters that 
make up the broad river ; and by-and-by the river too 
disappears in the bounding and heaving ocean of active 
life. 

Mark the engaging features of that little fellow, now 
just four years old, whose beautiful auburn hair falls in 
graceful curls down his neck and over his shoulders. 
Look into that sweet blue eye ; note the finely arched 
eyebrow, the fair and massive forehead, radiant as a 
rainbow in miniature. With cheerful or rollicking step 
he comes along, carolling with yet feeble, childish voice 
some sweet hymn learned at his mother’s knee — per- 
haps the preparation for retiring to the inviting repose 
of his little trundle-bed, drawn, for assurance of safety, 


84 


LEAVES FROM A 


close to mamma’s ; or else he is essaying some musical 
effusion just poured forth — a mixture of noise and pa- 
thos— from the pipes of a near hand-organ ; it may be, 
“ Willie, we have missed you 1” or, the children's favor- 
ite, “Pop goes the Weasel” Now he comes dashing 
into the room with a bundle of the most oddly-assorted 
materials : there are father’s papers, notes, bills of sale 
and of lading, and accounts — mother’s laces and rib- 
bons, and his own old shoes and stockings ! Spilling 
them all down at once and together, he looks at them 
somewhat, we may suppose, as did another boy, who, 
when his buttermilk lay scattered on the ground, ex- 
claimed : “ Ah 1 it’s lying all around loose !” 

“There, now,” says Johnny, his load being dumped 
on the floor, “ I’ll help you, mamma ! Father is in New 
York, and has got no time to help ; but I'll help. See 
what a lot of things Pve got out of the big trunk in the 
other room for you. See that 1” — and he holds up to 
view some laces squeezed tighter in the eager little 
hand than could be considered good for the texture. 
“And look at this I” continues the triumphant Johnny, 
as he raises a bunch of beautiful French flowers sadly 
crushed together, and rendered well-nigh valueless. 

“ Yes, you look like helping /” said a rather tall, lady- 
like person, and with a mingled look of veneration and 
pride, in spite of the fact that she saw her laces and 
flowers subjected to an over-dose of the treatment she 
often administered to Johnny’s self — that of pressure. 
This lady was Johnny’s mother, a slender, fair-haired, 
genteel, refined, delicate, and somewhat nervous per- 
son, of about twenty-seven summers. Johnny was, in 
a manner, her other self ; in eyes, hair, features — in all, 


PHYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 


85 


in fact, save sex, size, and age. He seemed copied by 
Dame Nature from her, and with a careful and accurate, 
but a somewhat luxuriant hand. 

At the moment of which we speak, the lady formed 
the centre and commander of some five persons, — three 
Bridgets — we presume they all bore that name — Michael 
and Patrick : some were putting down carpets, others 
putting up bedsteads, others placing or misplacing 
chairs and a variety of other articles, most of which, in- 
deed, would well justify the description of lying round 
in a manner the most delightfully “ loose,” — a state of 
things of which only New-York-Brooklyn-ites, about 
the first of May, can fairly lay claim to have had, in the 
language of a certain good old lady, “the blest and 
happy experience !” 

The family had just removed into the city of Brook- 
lyn from the interior of the State. The husband and 
father had already become, as the phrase goes, a down- 
town merchant ; and he was fast amassing a fortune. 
He was a man of thick-set build, with dark and bushy 
hair, high cheek-bones, compressed lips, a large nose, a 
full brow, and sharp piercing eyes. In fact, his strongly 
marked features indicated corresponding strength of 
character ; and yet, though not a professed Christian, 
he was a man of high moral tone as well as of good in- 
tellectual abilities. He loved three things devotedly, 
but, as his wife said, in the following order : “ business 
much ; wife more ; and Johnny most of all.” 

A kiss from Johnny was usually the last sound heard 
in the porch, or at the door, as he departed for business 
in the morning ; and a kiss was the first sound heard 
as he entered the house when, business and care laid 


86 


LEAVES FROM A 


aside, he could seek home and repose. Johnny knew 
his footsteps well, and often waited and watched for 
them; and when Papa was seated, Johnny would 
mount his lap with the celerity of a squirrel climbing 
for chestnuts, and in truth with about as much chatter- 
ing — telling what Bridget had done to him, what Mamma 
had said, and, by looks, tones, and gestures, attracting 
as much sympathy as possible on the score of various 
unhappy collisions between his head and the floor, or 
making excuses for little misdemeanors he feared might 
be revealed ; until, at the last, he would wind up with 
a general fumble in every pocket of vest, coat, and pan- 
taloons, in quest of any confections and candies which 
might possibly be there in waiting, and which he might 
hope to appropriate to himself. And in fact, with all 
Johnny’s roguery with the serving-girls, in the way of 
throwing dust into their newly-made starch on ironing 
days, or running his little fists into the molasses, and 
dripping it over his clothes when just dressed to go 
out, and notwithstanding his naughtiness in making a 
wash-tub on a certain occasion of his father’s new hat, 
and even spoiling the new bonnet for which his mother 
had just paid fifteen dollars, he was, in his way, a 
thoughtful and a religious little boy. At least, his 
grandmother thought so, and so it must be said at times 
did his father ; though at other times, when a batch of 
these wayward proceedings of the man in miniature had 
to be related to the father on his return from the day’s 
business, it must be acknowledged that the latter would 
smile somewhat ironically over Johnny’s claim to re- 
ligious feeling. Certainly Johnny seemed religious 
when, with Iris little hands clasped, his eyes upturned, 


physician’s journal. 


87 


and knees bent by his mother’s side, he uttered his eve- 
ning prayers. Even then, there were strange ideas 
sometimes running through his head. 

“ Mother, mother !” said Johnny on one occasion, 
when he was about finishing the Lord’s prayer, and ap- 
parently through a suggestion by the word “glory,” 
which he had just uttered, of something he had before 
thought or heard, “ ain’t the stars the gimlet-holes to let 
the glory through to us ?” 

“ Johnny, my child I” said his mother, in as serious a 
tone as she could command, and yet half laughing, 
“ when you pray, be careful to remember what you are 
doing.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Johnny, demurely; and finishing 
the prayer, he took up his “ Now I lay me down to 
sleep,” for very soon thereafter the little sage was to 
be quietly composed in his bed, and forgetful alike of 
his childish duties and difficulties. 

“ I don’t know what to make of that child,” said his 
old grandmother ; “ he makes me laugh so sometimes, 
and then again he is so wise. I fear he wiH not live 
long. He is a mighty pious child, and then he is so 
funny, and has so old a head ! He is not long for this 
world, I think. I have prayed, long and earnestly, that 
be might yet be a missionary to the poor heathen. But 
I don’t know about it. Sometimes he is as pious as Bea- 
con Williams himself; and he knows so much about the 
Bible, that I have great hopes. But then, again, he is 
so funny, and has so many naughty tricks, that I have 
my doubts.” 

While all this was being said, Johnny had taken to 
amusing himself with his grandma’s spectacles, which, 


88 


LEAVES FROM A 


in the earnestness of her reflections, she had taken off 
and dropped. First, he gently placed the case in a 
basin of water standing near by, to see how it would 
perform as a boat ; and then he astonished the old lady 
by clapping on the spectacles himself, and looking up 
at her with a quizzical and puzzling sort of look, but 
just as if he might be thinking, “Well, now, grand- 
mamma ! don't you think I am going to make a conquer- 
ing hero, and a fit candidate for the work of converting 
the Hottentots ?” But let us return to the morning of 
the house-cleaning and setting to rights, from which 
Johnny’s peculiarities had led us temporarily to digress. 

Ting-a-ling-a-ling ! all at once goes the door-bell, and 

away bolts Bridget to the door, while Mrs. S flies 

up stairs, lest she should be seen in her morning house- 
cleaning ; and away slip, in a trice, the rest of the help, — 
illustrating but too well the housewife’s adage, that 
“ when the cat’s away, the mice will play.” 

“ Is Mr. S at home ?” inquired a portly gentleman 

at the door. 

“ No, sir, he is not ; but he will be home at four 
o’clock this afternoon,” said Bridget. 

Away went the stranger, with a polite bow ; and in, 
presently, with a hop and a bound, came Bridget, sing- 
ing a snatch of one of Moore’s sweet melodies, 

“ There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,” 

and thinking fondly of old Ireland, so far away beyond 
the blue Atlantic. 

As Bridget re-entered the room, she was already ex- 
claiming, “Well, madam, an’ what shall I do now?” 
when, suddenly, little Johnny attracted her notice, and 


physician's journal. 89 

changing at once to a look and attitude of terror, she 
screamed — 

“ 0 merciful God ! — help ! — murder ! — help, help ! — 
Johnny's kilt ; oh, he's kilt! Michael! Patrick! Ellen! 

Mrs. S ! Come, come !'' and ending with a shriek, 

she fell exhausted at the foot of the stairs leading to 

the room to which Mrs. S had hut a minute or two 

before retired. In an instant down came Mrs. S , 

and in came the help : there lay little Johnny, on the 
floor, pale already as a corpse, and gasping for breath. 

“Johnny! dear Johnny!" cried his mother, as with 
lightning rapidity she snatched him from the floor, and 
pressed him to her bosom ; and then bursting into a 
flood of tears, she exclaimed, “ What is the matter ? Oh, 
tell me, what have you been doing ?" 

Johnny could only utter a moan in reply to his 
mother's anxious inquiry ; and then writhing, and al- 
most doubling himself together, he succeeded in vomit- 
ing a little bloody mucus, retching terribly, and then 
again gasping for breath : indeed, he looked the picture 
of death itself. 

“ Run for the doctor !" exclaimed Mrs. S ; “ fly ! 

hurry, for God's sake ! — my child is dying ! Get any 
one — the nearest one you can find. Michael, run for 
his father ; tell him all you have seen, and bring him 
instantly. 0 God ! help — help me now ! Johnny is 
dying, and his father is away, and mother gone, too. 
Oh ! my boy ! my dear and only boy ! what shall I do ? 
Oh ! oh ! oh !" and bursting into a loud, piercing cry, 
and then burying her face in the bosom of her boy, she 
poured forth the grief of her stricken heart in a flood of 
tears. * * * * * * 


90 


LEAVES FROM A 


That morning I had been out making my usual round 
of calls, and coming in quite exhausted, had lain down 
on my office sofa, hoping for a little rest ; but alack ! 
there is no rest for mortals, and, especially, none for 
mortal physicians. I had almost lost myself in a comfort- 
able nap, of which my loss of sleep the previous night 
had made me feel the need, when I was suddenly 
brought back to consciousness by a most violent rap , 
rap, rap, at the door of my office. Springing to my feet, 
and opening the door, I was accosted with the words — 
“ Doctor ! for God’s sake, come 1 — there is a child 
dying up there . The missus wants you to come right 
off. Do come, without delay.” 

The messenger directing the way, I was soon at the 
house, and making, in my haste, the distance of the 
steps and porch in three bounds, I ran up the stairs and 
entered the room in which the little sufferer was. 
There, at a glance, I saw, or imagined I saw, the whole 
train of evils. Taking the little fellow in my arms, I 
laid him down on the sofa, and examined his tongue, 
pulse, and extremities. Then, taking a second look at 
the half-put-up bedsteads, heaps of carpets, and general 
confusion of chairs, tables, and other movables, and see- 
ing a cup on the floor in the corner, I said — 

“ This child is poisoned ; surely you have been using 
bed-bug poison ?” 

A new thought flashed on the mother’s mind, and she 
cried out, the blood meantime flushing her face as if it 
would burst from the very pores, and then as suddenly 
receding, and leaving her pallid as before — 

“ Where is that cup ? Look — look for it and then, 
as if already convinced of the truth of my remark, she 


physician’s journal. 


91 


burst into a flood of tears, broken with sobs, and such 
passionate exclamations as, “ Oh, oh ! he’s poisoned ; 
he’s poisoned ! He’s drank that out of the cup ! 0 

God ! what shall I do ? What will his father say, 
that loves little Johnny so much ? Oh, I shall never 
forgive myself — never more know peace of mind and 
then, weeping afresh, she kissed again and again her 
suffering boy. 

Meanwhile I had examined the cup. It had contained 
corrosive sublimate! and the little fellow, in his igno- 
rance and childish eagerness, had quaffed down its 
deadly contents, — the large quantity of the poison, and 
its already dissolved or liquid state, accounting for the 
suddenness and violence of the effects. Some time had 
already elapsed since the swallowing of the poison, and 
there now lay little Johnny, prostrated under its action. 
Already the delicate coats of the stomach must be fear- 
fully irritated ; and besides, a portion of the deadly agent 
being by this time absorbed into the blood, must be 
taking its destructive course through the entire system. 
The patient was not, at the moment, vomiting, but his 
face was flushed, his extremities cold, and his heart flut- 
tering as if some unseen agency, but potent for destruc- 
tion, had already seized upon it, and was threatening to 
crush down its impotent heavings to the stillness of 
death. His brain was oppressed, his breathing labori- 
ous, and in every way it was evident that he was fast 
making towards the night of the grave. By this time, 
he would now and then piteously moan out, “ Give me 
drink ! give me drink !” pointing to his mouth ; and 
then again he would be cramped with pain, or gag and 
choke in the vain effort to vomit. 


92 


LEAVES FROM A 


Having my medicine-case with me, I had, even while 
observing the symptoms of the poisoned child, already 
taken thence what, for him, was a large dose of a quick 
and powerful emetic ; and as speedily thereafter, as he 
lay conveniently on the sofa, and was eager to drink, I 
had secured his swallowing of it. Having thus com- 
menced the work of removing from the stomach the cer- 
tainly fatal quantity of the poison which I knew must 
yet remain there, I endeavored further to calm the mind 
of his mother, whose grief, indeed, in the prospect of 
having something done for her boy’s relief, had already 
subsided in a degree. 

“ Madam,” I said, “ you should still hope for the best. 
Depend upon it, what I can do for your child shall be 
done, and to the utmost of my ability. And then, there 
is a God above : let us trust Him for the issue. Strive 
to be calm. There is, when we are prepared to discern 
it, a special Providence that determines even the fall of 
a sparrow.” 

The emetic which I gave to little Johnny operated 
promptly, discharging from the stomach, I judged, all 
its contents. I gave at first with the emetic no more 
liquid than just sufficed to contain the dose and wash it 
down, and that for fear of favoring the absorption of the 
poison ; but near the close of the vomiting a little warm 
water was administered, to secure a more effectual 
clearing out of the stomach. Meantime, as some of the 
poison must have passed, still unabsorbed, into the 
upper bowels, to render this and that portion which 
had entered his blood less active, or, if possible, com- 
pletely to neutralize its action until it could be thrown 
off by the excreting organs, I had obtained and got in 


physician’s journal. 


93 


readiness the best antidote of which this poison admits. 
Having ordered several eggs, I separated the whites — 
the more albuminous parts — in a bowl, and beat them 
up with a little water. This preparation I fed to my 
patient in spoonful doses, and for hours, — having also 
given a purge to hasten the removal of the arrested 
poison From the bowels. There I sat, feeding the anti- 
dote to poor Johnny, and awaiting results ; and if ever 
I prayed God to bless human means, it was then. I 
must have done so, if only for the mother’s sake ; for so 
uncontrollable were her grief and despair, that I really 
feared insanity would ensue. 

The household had indeed become somewhat more 
quiet. The first outburst of terror and alarm had sub- 
sided ; but it left a calm that was quite as painful, and, 
in the mother’s case, terrible, — a calm made up of the 
mingled elements of hope, and fear, and sorrow, and 
withal, oppressing reflections on the anticipated pain of 
a fond father’s heart. 

Mrs. S had now oscillated from the extreme of a 

volcanic grief to a deep, muttering despair. She sat by 
Johnny’s side, his right hand firmly enclosed between 
hers, and with a fixedness of eye and an earnestness of 
gaze that could not be diverted, and that was oppressive 
to behold. I could not help thinking to myself : “ What 
a picture of grief! An angel rapt, oblivious of self, 
and wholly lost in one absorbing thought ! What a 
group for the chisel of the sculptor P — in which little 
Johnny’s appearance too well answered for a dead 
cherub ! For he was now, at intervals, much more 
quiet, and his mother, bending over his marble-like 
form, was the very image of sorrow. 


94 : 


LEAVES FEOM A 


u Oh ! if he dies,” she said, at last, “ I want to be 
buried with him ; for I shall not long survive. Take us 
back to our country home : there, among the beautiful 
flowers — there, with all the loveliness of our sweet 
country churchyard around us — there, where my 
friends and my father lie — by the hill-side : let us be 
laid there ! Johnny is my first-born, my only son : I 
want no other but him ! And if he dies, what, oh what 
will become of me ?” 

All this was spoken as if she were alone, and it sank 
into my very heart. That tone, with its depth of ear- 
nestness, as I recall that hour, still rings in my ears 
startlingly fresh and real, even at this distance of time. 
Breaking in on her wail of distress, I ventured to inter- 
pose a word : 

“ God hears the raven’s cry — and will He turn mor- 
tals away? Think how merciful He is. In the past 
ages, He even raised the dead to life. And though we 
must probably regard miracles as having now ceased, 
yet is He styled a God who lieareth prayer. He may 
yet spare your angelic boy. The symptoms of the little 
sufferer, in fact, appear more favorable now than they 
have done. But if he must be taken away, it may be 
for your spiritual good that this affliction has been per- 
mitted, if not sent. And still, however that may be, 
your duty to yourself should urge you to be calm, to 
trust in God and hope for the best.” 

“ I know all that,” she replied, mournfully ; “ but, 
Doctor, what do you think of a trust in God that ignores 
Him in health and prosperity, and cries for help when 
we are in adversity and sorrow ?” 

Before I could reply, the familiar click and grating of 


physician’s journal. 95 

a night-key in the door was heard, and the servants’ 

manner gave notice of the approach of Mr. S . 

With a firm, steady, yet rapid step, he came in, and fix- 
ing his eyes at once on his boy lying on the sofa, with- 
out noticing his wife or myself, he first bent down and 
imprinted a kiss on Johnny’s cold, pale cheek, and then 
drawing up a chair, seated himself, and gazed as fixedly 
into the face of the child as if, out of that beautiful face, 
he would wring a response to the question that was 
tearing his heart-strings — 

“Johnny, my son 1” he seemed to say, though as 
yet he spoke not a word, “ must you die ? can you 
live ?” 

Then, drawing a long, deep sigh, he covered his face, 
and his manly form heaved, and even swayed to and 
fro, under the shock, until it seemed as if every fibre 
and nerve of his body must be quivering like the shaken 
aspen leaf. 

Woman’s sorrow is often deep and wringing ; but 
man’s, if it be deep, becomes terrible. The tears of 
woman may even have, externally, something of loveli- 
ness ; but in the overwhelming agony which accompa- 
nies the tears of a strong man, and in the broken, deep, 
bass tones in which his woe finds partial utterance, 
there are misgivings of a verging close on despair or 
dissolution. 

Still, not one word had been uttered ; and at length 
the silence — such silence — became too intense to be 
longer tolerable. 

“ Sir,” I said to the father, “ your child seems a little 
better, and there is hope— more at this time than when 
I came.” 


96 


LEAVES FfiOM A 


For the first time, apparently, he looked at me, and 
said — 

“ Do not deceive us, Doctor ! He looks very bad. 
Tell us the truth, just as it is, even though it may break 
my heart,” and he pressed his hands against his heaving 
chest, as if his heart literally threatened to break from 
its place. Then he ceased speaking, his hands falling 
by his side, his lips quivering, and the color leaving his 
face ; but in a moment more he said, in deep, guttural, 
heart-touching tones : “ My son ! my son ! my only 
son ! must you die ?” 

At sight of his grief, Mrs. S , true to her womanly 

nature, forgot, in an instant, the pang of her own sor- 
row, and even the momentary skepticism that but a 
little before appeared to rob her own mind of the benefit 
of offered consolation, and drawing her chair near to her 
husband, she put her arms around his neck and endeav- 
ored to support his mind with the very thoughts, and 
almost in the very words which I had just uttered to 
her, but against which fear and unbelief had appeared 
then to close her heart. 

“Be calm, my dear ; all may be well yet. God does 
indeed hear the raven’s cry, and will He not hear us ? 
Let us pray to Him — let us improve this affliction— and 
all will yet be well.” 

Mr. S raised his head, and turned to me again. 

“Doctor,” said he, “do you really think Johnny will 
get over this ? Do you really think so ? Do not de- 
ceive us. If you cure him, I will pay you any sum you 

desire. Draw on the firm of ‘S & Co.’ for any 

amount — only save him I” 

I said : “ It is contrary to my practice to misrepresent 


physician’s journal. 


97 


the state of a patient, or to deceive those interested, 
and most of all where, even if the result did not soon 
undeceive every one, their feelings must be too deeply 
involved to be trifled with ; but, to speak with entire 
candor, I do think your child is better. I have more 
hopes of his safety now than I could have one hour 
since. In fact, having watched him closely, my hopes 
increase as I administer and observe the effect of the 
antidote to the poison.” 

“ I thank God for that !” said he. “ Do the best you 
can for him, and may God help you ! Spare no pains 
nor expense. Get any thing that is necessary, consult 
with whom you please, and the compensation you may 
ask is at your command — only save my boy !” 

I thanked him for his assurances, and pledged to him 
my determination to do or have done in the case every 
thing that my best judgment should pronounce requisite. 

Not long after this conversation, becoming convinced 
that there were evident signs of my little patient’s re- 
covery — signs such as to the practised are unfailing, 
although quite unknown to the anxious friends, if not, 
indeed, impossible of discovery and proper reliance to 
minds so agitated with the yearnings of affection and 
the harassings of fear — and remembering that I had 
still a number of sick ones on my hands, I gave the 
necessary directions for administering remedies, in- 
formed the parents what symptoms were to be expected 
if the case continued to mend, and what they might con- 
sider as unfavorable signs, and charging them to send 
for me at once should any change for the worse occur, 
I left, with a promise, in any event, to call again late 
in the evening. 


5 


98 


LEAVES FROM A 


No messenger in the mean time having called for me, 
I kept my appointment at the hour named. To my own 
joyful surprise, in a degree, I found little Johnny, 
though still pale and slightly feverish from the irrita- 
tion of the stomach under which he was unavoidably 
suffering, sitting, nearly in his accustomed appearance 
and style, on his father’s knee ! After giving the neces- 
sary instructions for the night, I left, and not long after 
I was upon my couch, enjoying the now much-needed 
blessing of quiet repose. 

Calling the next day at ten, I found little Johnny 
chatting in about his usual quaint and childish-wise 
manner, while a smile of undisturbed satisfaction played 
over the faces of both father and mother ; and that look 
of earnest gratitude greeted my approach, which no 
physician who has doubtfully but faithfully fought the 
monster — disease — and, to the joy of patient and of 
loving friends, has conquered, can mistake, or perceiv- 
ing it, fail deeply to appreciate. 



% 


physician’s journal. 


99 


BEAUTY, INTELLIGENCE, AND REFINEMENT: 

A SACRIFICE TO WINE. 



■ ABITS once formed become, as it were, a part of 
our very nature ; and hence the reason that it 
is then so hard to lay them off, or cease from 
indulgence in them. How quickly does the 
young man acquire what he thereafter feels to be the 
necessity of chewing the leaf of that nauseous, acrid, 
and poisonous plant, tobacco ! How ready is he to 
swallow the wine or the whiskey, forgetting that soon, 
by occasionally taking the former or sipping at the 
latter, a fatal habit is to be formed — an overmastering 
taste and appetite acquired ! Ay ! after how little of 
this luckless training are these young men found rolling 
the foul weed as a sweet morsel under the tongue ! 
while, as for tippling, if we are to judge by the fre- 
quency with which they come at length to be seen 
emerging from shops in which gin and whiskey-punches 
are sold, perhaps at “ three cents a glass,” wiping their 
lips, and biting the sem. cardamom, to disinfect their 
breath, we must believe them ready to say with the 
poet — 

“ Still we love 

The evil we do, until we suffer it.” 


100 


LEAVES FROM A 


Habits thus formed are almost certain to cling to 
their votaries through life. A passion for the theatre, 
for the card-table, for the race-course, or any other 
vicious taste, once formed, how fascinating and allur- 
ing becomes its object, and, for the young especially, 
how hard then to resist its attraction ! Could young 
men but once look through the misty haze of the future 
they may be preparing for themselves — could they now 
see themselves as they are yet to be, when, if life be so 
far prolonged, the frosts of its December shall have 
whitened their heads, poor, reeling, companionless, pitied 
drunkards, or slaves of the gambling-table, risking that 
which it may cost them years of toil to accumulate 
upon a single cast of a die — methinks they would pause 
ere they took the first steps on the way to habits 
fraught with so much danger. 

But too many instances have, in this great city, with 
its hurry of business, its opportunities for deception, 
and its powerful appeals to appetite and desire, come to 
my knowledge, in which young men who, through the 
influence of friends, had secured positions of honor and 
responsibility, and who had by degrees, and it may be 
at the first through faithful service, gained what for any 
honest pursuit would be of so much value to them, the 
confidence of their employers, have yet in an evil day, 
and in order to minister to nefarious tastes or habits 
acquired in their youth — the shuffling of cards, or toss- 
ing of dice — purloined money or other valuables from 
those to whose till or safe their supposed virtue had 
gained them access, and upon the exposure which is al- 
most certain to follow, have brought down the gray 
hairs of honored parents in sorrow to the grave, and 


physician's jouenal. 


101 


ended their own criminal course, if not by suicide, in 
the penitentiary or the state-prison. 

It is comparatively seldom that fell habits of one or 
other of the sorts to which reference has now been 
made, seize upon the spirit and ingrain themselves into 
the life of woman ; but in the rarer cases in which they 
do so, their hold is none the less deadly, the demoraliza- 
tion and ruin they work none the less fearful to con- 
template, the end to which they lead none the less sad 
and terrible. 

Amelia was the second daughter of Mr. and Mrs. 

B , old and much-respected residents of Brooklyn. 

She was a noble-looking girl, with high forehead and 
finely-wrought features. Of her eyes, which were 
neither, too large nor too small, the color was a quite 
dark blue. Her hair was black almost as the plumage 
of the raven, and of a texture as soft as silk, while her 
skin was smooth, soft, and white, save where Heaven’s 
own pencilling had traced the rose-tints upon her fine 
full cheeks. When features such as these were im- 
proved by mildness of temper and suavity of manner, it 
is not to be wondered at that Amelia’s face wore an ex- 
pression of singular sweetness and interest. 

Mr. B had secured for his daughter, at the Packer 

Institute of this city, an education conducted with care, 
and of more than usually liberal scope. At this school, 
where she could scarcely fail of forming a large circle 
of acquaintances, her sweetness of disposition and her 
social qualities added a stronger bond, and turned very 
many of that circle to ardent personal friends. In the 
class of 18 — , Amelia graduated from the Institution with 
high honors. 


102 


LEAVES FROM A 


She was not only a social and frank, but also an in- 
tellectual girl, able to converse fluently, and yet in a 
manner showing a keenness of penetration that would do 
honor to older heads ; while she had, at the same time, 
quite enough of quick, intuitive perception, or “ mother- 
wit,” to render her conversation discreet and judicious, 
and to enable her to entertain agreeably either the 
young or the old. An hour spent with Amelia B 
would pass pleasantly and but too quickly away ; and 
in truth, 

“ None knew lier but to love her, 

None named her but to praise.” 

Withal, in fact — and the faithful training of the ‘Institute 
had still further strengthened it — Amelia had something 
of that peculiar caste of mind which in man makes the 
inventor or the author. How should such powers be 
available to her ? She could not appear upon the ros- 
trum ; and though she could indeed write, if disposed, 
yet the written word does not. satisfy the mind as does 
the spoken. And have we not here the solution we 
seek ? In the sensible interchange of thought with 
friends, perhaps with a husband, and possibly in the in- 
struction and guidance of her own children, how much 
happiness might she not impart, how much good might 
she not do, by means of that single but potent engine of 
a power of ready, refined, inspiriting, and kindly con- 
versation ! By means of this, especially might she 
prove, to the more rough and strife-hardened spirit of 
man, as the vine that in the forest entwines the oak and 
hangs its sturdy branches over with blossoms. By means 
of this might she infold, all his earnest life with her own 
excellences. 


physician’s jouenal. 


103 


But Amelia B had already learned also to love 

the ball-room and the theatre ; and having many ad- 
mirers, she had, as a necessary consequence, many invi- 
tations. And not seldom, indeed, was it that she graced 
with her presence her favorite places of amusement. 
After she had entered upon the season of womanhood, 
the first day of January in each returning year found her 
in her father’s parlor, presiding over a table loaded with 
all the luxuries that fond and indulgent parents could 
provide the fair servitor upon the comfort of the many 
callers whom her own large circle of friends, and 
those of the family, w y ere sure to • send with their con- 
gratulations upon each return of “New Year’s Day.” 
And it is no more than truthful to say that, of the many 
young men who on that day paid their respects to 

Amelia B , they were very few who called through 

ceremony only, or to partake of the hospitalities of that 
well-spread table; and far more numerous were those 
whose chief desire was to do unfeigned homage at her 
shrine, to gaze upon her fine features and form, and to 
share in that inspiring influence which the presence of 
handsome-featured and intelligent women is sure to im- 
part to all but the hardened and insensible of the other 
sex. 

Prominent in the centre of the New-Year’s table, 
however, were also to be seen sundry decanters and 
goblets, the former filled either with sparkling wine or 
with those more inoffensive-looking, yet more deadly 
liquids, and which with the confirmed votaries of Bacchus 
are but too likely to be still greater favorites — brandy, 
“ Old Bourbon,” and “ Santa Cruz.” These beverages, 
alas 1 Amelia did not feel it wrong to deal out to the 


104 


LEAVES FROM A 


friends who called upon her, and with unsparing hand. 
Few had the moral courage to resist the temptation, 
when proffered by hands so fair. It was even thus that 
in Eden, when woman not only smiled approvingly on a 
sinful indulgence, but by her charms induced her com- 
panion also to err, the fatal act became the means of 
robbing both of that nobility and perfection with which 
the Almighty had endowed them, and changed a garden 
of pleasure to a vale of sorrow. 

I well recollect a scene that transpired at the house 

of Amelia B on one of the occasions such as I have 

been describing, and in the year 18 — . I have already 
presumed that the reader is familiar with the custom 
existing in certain parts of our country, but probably 
nowhere else so scrupulously observed as in the two 
contiguous cities of New York and Brooklyn, of making 
many brief and friendly calls on the first day of the 
year. On the day in question, some friends and myself 
called to see Amelia and her mother, the time of our 
visit being about eight o’clock in the evening. We 
rang the bell, and were duly ushered into the magnifi- 
cently furnished parlors. I think I had never before 
seen Amelia looking so beautiful. Her dress was of 
white satin ; her brow was decked with a wreath of 
flowers, out from among which sparkled the prismatic 
light of three fine diamonds. On her breast shone a large 
and evidently expensive jewelled pin ; while her wrists 
were ornamented with bracelets carved from the finest 
gold. 

But nature far out-vied all art in producing, in Amelia 

B , the perfect model of a woman. And yet, as we 

entered, this peerless being stood before us in that 


physician’s journal. 105 

brilliantly-lighted parlor, with a salver in her hand on 
which were four goblets filled with intoxicating liquids, 
while she was urging the like number of young men, 
who had just previously called, to quaff their contents ! 
How could they refuse ? At least they did not ; for 
each took one of the proffered glasses. Amelia set down 
the salver, and after greeting us who had newly ar- 
rived, engaged in some general conversation which 
arose. Presently one of those who had so little before 
received the glass at her hands, a tall and fine-looking 

young man named Henry L , took up a decanter, 

filled a goblet, and presenting it to his fair entertainer, 
said — 

“ Miss Amelia, you have urged me to drink of this 
wine, and really it is delightful. Allow me to recipro- 
cate. Will you do me the favor to drink with us ?” 

Amelia took the glass, sipped, and then exchanging 
glasses, repeated this with each in turn — and no doubt 
the wine tasted by so much the sweeter after having 
touched her ruby lips ! Soon were the deadly contents 
of each of those five glasses transferred to irritate the 
delicate coatings of that much-abused organ, the 
stomach ; and well-nigh as soon, but far worse in effect, 
the poisonous liquid had entered the blood, and cours- 
ing through the circulatory system, must have begun 
to exert its disturbing and exciting action upon the 
brain and nerves — the very process and forming stage 
of the fatal habit of inebriety. 

Ah ! could the mystic veil of the future but have been 
raised at that time, so that Amelia might have beheld 
as in a mirror the hidden rock, the quicksands and 
breakers of the treacherous ocean upon which she was 


106 


LEAVES FROM A 


even then launching her frail bark, methinks that, 
rather than once have placed that goblet to her ruddy 
lips, she would have dashed it, brimming as it was with 
the tempting juice that at the last u biteth like a ser- 
pent and stingeth like an adder/' in terror, if not in in- 
dignation, to the earth. 

In due time, the party which had gathered for a few 
moments, and in fact by accident, for the interchange 
of greetings becoming the New Year’s night, left for 
their several abodes. But the work which on that 
night began, or was yet in its beginning, did not so 
lightly and cheerily as the evening’s gathering come to 
its termination. 

Too sad to relate — Amelia did by degrees acquire the 
fatal taste ; she learned to love that which, as the 
sequel will show, proved her ruin, and cost her her life. 
Tempting others, she became herself also tempted ; and 
she truly fell by her own hand. So liable, in this world, 
are even our excellences to lead us into great and un- 
expected perils ! The glory we gaze admiringly upon 
may be, even as we look, but the glory of a sunset cloud, 
in a brief time to fade out and give place to the dark- 
ness of night, or perhaps to the yet gloomier darkness 
of the storm, relieved only by the lightnings that at in- 
tervals dart like knotted serpents of fire - across the 
lurid heavens. 

In the course of time, many suitors presented their 
appeals for Amelia’s love ; and many were rejected. 
Among the rest, Henry L made proposals of mar- 

riage : to him fell the boon of acceptance. On the day 
on which she completed her twentieth year, he led the 
accomplished Amelia B to the altar ; and they were 


physician’s journal. 


107 


united in what friends as well as themselves, doubtless, 
hoped would prove the silken bonds of Hymen. Many 
were the witnesses of the pleasing ceremony ; and all 

felt that, in Amelia, Henry L had won and secured 

one of life’s first prizes. 

The occupation of Henry L was that of pilot in 

the waters contiguous to the great metropolis. Nat- 
urally possessed of a strong constitution, his business 
had still further rendered him hardy and capable of 
great endurance. Though his face showed the evi- 
dences of exposure on the sea, yet the effect in him was 
to increase the beauty of a really handsome counte- 
nance ; and as he stood by the side of the healthy-look- 
ing, but more delicately nurtured and now almost timid 
Amelia, he was a fine specimen of hale and hearty 
manhood, and worthy to be a companion of the beauti- 
ful girl. There are certain fitnesses in life which are 
sometimes, and it may prove unfortunately, overlooked. 
We shall be understood when we say that Amelia was 
one beside whom a feeble or delicate man would have 
appeared out of place. 

Time rolled on, and the home and fireside of Henry 

and Amelia L were cheered with four sprightly 

children. But as Henry’s occupation of pilot would fre- 
quently detain him from home for some days, Amelia, 
who had not thrown oft’ the taste for alcoholic stimulants 
acquired in younger years, would on such occasions 
commonly send for wine and brandy, and then, in some 
retired room, by herself or with some female friends of 
like unfortunate habits, would to the heart’s content 
quaff from those treacherous liquids. This system of 
tippling Amelia kept up for years before it was discov- 


108 


LEAVES FROM A 


ered by her husband ; although, in truth, he had fre- 
quently observed, upon returning home after a few days 
of service in cruising for vessels to bring into port, that 
in his wife’s manner there was something peculiar and 
strange. Himself a temperate man, and one who had 
now for years abstained wholly from intoxicating bev- 
erages, although he well remembered how often, during 
their courtship, Amelia had urged him to join her in a 
glass of wine, and knew that she then frequently took 
a glass with others, yet it had not entered his mind that 
she could have acquired in this respect aught like a 
confirmed habit, and he had not the remotest thought 
that his wife would actually drink to inebriation. As 
it was, the intemperate woman knowingly chose a tem- 
perate husband ; the temperate man, though unknow- 
ingly, had chosen an intemperate wife. For the solu- 
tion of enigmas in life such as this, we can refer the 
reader to one soothsayer only — Cupid ! 

At length, it could not but happen that Henry would 
return sometimes, unexpectedly, when his unfortunate 
wife was in the midst of her hilarious revels. At such 
times she would feign sickness, and thus receive the 
condolences of her husband for ailings of which wine 
or brandy was the sole cause. As time passed on, the 
change from wines to stronger liquors, which had long 
since been commenced, became more decided; and as 
the craving and appetite returned after indulgence with 
increased force, the quantity of the whiskey, brandy, or 
gin now resorted to was of course increased. Dissipa- 
tion in this stage could not long be concealed : Henry 

L became at last painfully convinced that his wife 

was addicted to actual drunkenness. Alarmed, and 


physician’s journal. 


109 


stricken with sorrow, he sought her reformation. He 
urged the most potent reasons — appealing to her ma- 
ternal love — beseeching her, for the sake of her children, 
to abstain from the intoxicating glass. But his words 
were no more than so many pebbles dropped into the 
channel of the flowing river, and creating only moment- 
ary whirls and eddies of the stream — appetite — which, 
surging about the puny obstructions, had its force, in- 
stead of being destroyed, rendered only so much the 
more apparent. 

Dec. 16, 18 — , at two o’clock a. m., I was aroused 
from my slumbers by the violent ringing of my office- 
bell. Answering the call, I was summoned to attend 

immediately a sick woman residing in street. Not 

caring to leave my office at that hour on foot and alone, 
I prevailed on the messenger to wait until I was ready 
to accompany him. Having finished dressing, placed 
my case of medicines in my pocket, and taken up my 
cane with a view to any such contingency as the need 
of self-protection, I led the way, and with the messenger 
sallied forth into the keen, yet salubrious air of that 
winter’s morning^ 

A walk of about half a mile brought us to my patient’s 
dwelling ; and I was there soon ushered into a bedroom 
of large size, within which a woman was lying on a 
couch. Her face was bloated and her hair tangled ; 
and these things, with the wild and frenzied look of her 
bloodshot eyes, gave to features, which still appeared 
to have been once regular and beautiful, a horrid expres- 
sion, from which, for the moment, I involuntarily started 
back. I soon recovered my equilibrium; but the im- 


110 


LEAVES FROM A 


pression had already formed itself in my mind that I 
recognized the countenance of my patient. Taking a 
chair by her bedside, I placed my finger upon her pulse, 
and found it in character soft and tremulous. Scarcely, 
however, had I time to ascertain its condition before 
the patient set up a sudden and unearthly scream, that 
brought me involuntarily to my feet : in a moment more 
the sufferer had gone into a convulsion. I applied the 
remedies usually found effectual in cases of spasm such 
as that before me, and with success. 

But there remained expressed in the woman’s counte- 
nance an indescribable anxiety. The extremities, mean- 
while, I found to be cold, and the 'whole surface bathed 
in a cold perspiration. The ailing woman’s incoherent 
expressions and gestures of terror showed that her 
imagination discovered to her the most frightful and 
disgusting objects, and under all the possible shapes of 
offensiveness, moving or flitting about her room. There 
were, as she believed, hissing serpents, toads, rats, mice, 
and loathsome reptiles of every sort ; while she even 
fancied vermin crawling over her bed-clothing and her 
person. The reader must already have inferred the 
truth, that her disease was delirium tremens. 

I again gazed earnestly upon the features of my pa- 
tient. “ Who can it be?” I asked myself, sure that I 
knew that face, though I could not as yet place and re- 
call its owner. Then, as with a sudden flash, memory 
answered to the demand upon its powers — “ It is Ame- 
lia B ,” I said to myself, “ that I knew long years 

ago — and last as the wife of Henry L J” 

As I scanned once more that now red and puffed face, 
and noted the bloodshot eyes, and the frenzied look 


physician’s journal. 


Ill 


alternating with a vacant stare, I could scarcely restrain 
an audible groan. As I observed these effects of a dis- 
eased blood, and of the convulsive action radiated from 
inflamed nervous centres, as well as of the despair and 
horror of a half-crazed brain, I could but exclaim, “Alas ! 
is it possible that she who now lies before me is the 
wreck of the once beautiful and accomplished Amelia 

B ? What demon has wrought this transformation ? 

Do I, indeed, now sit by the bedside of her who so gayly, 
on that distant New-Year’s day, pressed the wine or 
brandy to the lips of those friends who honored her with 
the customary call of congratulations, and w T ho was not 
satisfied unless with the like dangerous indulgences she 
enlivened the return of her annual birth-day parties ? 
Alas, alas ! it is all too true. And how many of the 
large number who first received from Amelia’s fair hand 
the sparkling draught have formed the like taste with 
hers, and may now, perhaps, be in equally lost condi- 
tion, the great God only knows. Oh, what a train of 
influences may an apparently trifling act set in motion ! 
It may be like the loosening of the brake of a car stand- 
ing on a grade — first, there is slow and quiet revolution, 
then a more hurried movement, and then at last a dash- 
ing downward, as though the ill-fated car swept onward 
on wheels of thunder.” 

When the convulsive agitation and the terror of the 
paroxysm had in good degree abated, I said to Amelia, 
“ You are very sick.” 

“ Yes, Doctor, I am ; and I am afraid I shall die.” 

“ You have been drinking ” 

“ Yes, Doctor, you are right ; I have been, and for 
some days. Can I recover ? or must I die ?” 


112 


LEAVES FROM A 


As she uttered the words last recorded the paroxysm 
returned upon her, and giving another scream, the sud- 
denness of which startled me as before, she the next mo- 
ment exclaimed : 

“ Take it away ! It will bite ! 0 Doctor, don’t let 

that dreadful snake bite me !” 

“ Where is it ?” I asked. 

“ There, there !” she screamed, pointing with her 
finger towards the spot on which her eyes were fixed. 
“Don’t you see it?” 

I placed myself between her and her imaginary foe, 
and in a few moments she was again somewhat more 
calm. 

“ Where,” I asked, “ do you feel pain ?” 

* “ In this poor head of mine,” she answered. “ 0 Doc- 
tor, the sad reflections of the past ! You are not a 
stranger to me. Do you remember calling at my 
father’s house on New-Year’s day, in the year 18 — , 
when I offered you a glass of wine, and you refused, say- 
ing that you neither used alcoholic drinks nor tobacco ?” 

“ I do remember it well,” I replied. 

“ Then” she resumed, “ I thought you foolish, and 
that those luxuries could safely be indulged in — to be 
stopped at our pleasure in later life. But, alas ! it has 
conquered me : now I cannot resist. Doctor, you were 
wise to refuse my foolish offer.” 

Truly it appears that the least virtue must sooner or 
later receive its deserved approbation. It may, for a 
time, be despised and rejected of men ; but the hour 
will come when all intelligence will cluster about it, to 
crown it, not with thorns, but with flowers — and flowers 
the flagrance of which shall never cease. 


physician’s journal. 


113 


But I had scarce a moment for reflections, for soon my 
patient’s hallucination returned, and, with a repetition 
of her wild and repulsive scream, she sprang up in her 
bed, exclaiming — 

“ Oh, help me ! help me ! He is after me ! See 
there ! that dagger — and pointing his pistol at me ! 
Oh, why, why will not somebody save me ?” 

By a movement as if I would intercept and drive 
from her the visionary intruder, I again quieted her 
fears. 

“ Amelia,” said I to her, after she had become some- 
what calm, 11 if you recover from this attack, Ttull you 
promise me never to take another drop of that which 
has caused your illness ?” 

“ Don’t ask me,” she replied, “ to promise what I can- 
not perform. I must drink it. Oh, that terrible appe- 
tite ! — that insupportable thirst for that which I know 
will kill me !” 

I was obliged now to depart ; but before doing so, I 
left her an anodyne, which, as I learned on my next 
visit, had the effect to compose still further her frenzied 
brain, and, indeed, to secure some hours of refreshing 
sleep. 

The reader will have observed that Amelia was at 
times comparatively rational, while again, in a few mo- 
ments, she would be laboring under all the horrors of 
her fearful malady ; and it may be expected that the 
writer, as a medical man, will insert a few words in elu- 
cidation of these points. 

Delirium tremens [tremens, trembling, shuddering, 
horror-stricken], as the disease under consideration is 
named, from its prominent and characteristic symptoms. 


114 


LEAVES FROM A 


or mania apotu [mania from drinking], as it is also termed 
in view of its cause, differs from the delirium which, may 
supervene under the action of a variety of other causes 
in two important particulars. The first of these is the 
extreme fear, often amounting to an absolute and wild 
horror, under which, at intervals, the patient in all 
cases labors, this mental dread being aroused by and 
directed towards certain objects, which the sufferer is 
most positively convinced are real and discovered about 
him by the natural use of his senses, though manifestly 
enough they are all the while purely creations existing 
within his own diseased imagination. During the par- 
oxysms, it is these unreal objects that almost wholly 
control the patient’s movements and dictate his cries 
and exclamations. The sufferer sees before him, or 
springing up in some dark corner of the room, robbers 
or assassins, watching him with glaring eyes and 
deadly design, or with weapons drawn and in the act of 
rushing upon him. Or again, he discovers serpents 
hissing and threatening to dart upon him, or even feels, 
as well as sees, their cold, damp, and horrid forms coil- 
ing and winding about his own person, nestling in his 
hair, or glaring in his face, and from which, for the time, 
all his efforts to free himself or escape are in vain. 
Then other objects less fearful, except that they are so 
out of place, and perhaps numerous — toads, lizards, or 
vermin — throng his apartment, or awaken the intensest 
disgust and fright by covering his person and his bed. 
From the pursuit of imagined human foes the victim of 
these delusions endeavors to hide or to defend himself, 
or he engages in desperate struggles with them, and 
perhaps even attempts to seize and bind them to pre- 


PHYSICIAN'S JOURNAL. 


115 


vent their assaults. In the supposed presence of rep- 
tiles or vermin, when these are seen as attempting to 
bite, crawling after, or otherwise worrying him, the 
maniac from alcohol screams for help, struggles in 
efforts to be rid of his tormentors, or even rushes in ter- 
ror from his bed. 

But, in the second place, in spite of delusions like 
those now referred to, a patient in the paroxysms of 
this disease is still likely to recognize persons about 
him ; he receives the physician courteously, and, in his 
calmer moments especially, answers his questions in a 
manner more or less sensible, and without hesitation ; 
and if his attention be aroused and strongly fixed, his 
answers will even be altogether rational on all points 
except such as are connected with his peculiar halluci- 
nation. 

During the hours of the day following the night of 
my first visit, I called again to see Amelia. She had 
but a little before aroused from the sleep which the 
anodyne had produced, and was now entirely free from 
those visual illusions which had so fearfully agitated 
her through the previous night. Again I urged and 
entreated her to cease at once from her self-destroying 
course, and pointed out the awful consequences that 
must follow if it were persevered in. I assured her 
that a course of treatment, by means of a few weeks’ or 
months’ change of air and surroundings, a regulated 
diet, and properly stimulant and alterant medicines — at 
once to serve as substitutes for the alcoholic stimulus 
and to remove the appetite for it— could be devised, and 
which, if faithfully followed, would yet result in her en- 
tire restoration to her former natural feeling and tastes, 


116 


LEAVES FROM A 


to health, sobriety, and all the comforts and joys of 
home. 

Alas for the fatal moral paralysis that seizes upon 
the brain and the will of the inebriate ! Amelia could 
clearly see the reasonableness and truth of all that I 
urged ; she realized her situation, and foresaw, with a 
vivid distinctness equal to aught that I could summon 
to paint them, the pain, the terrors, the shame, the 
speedy death to which she was rapidly hastening ; all 
this she could do and did, but she could not will, she 
could not resolve — she had not, ar at least she believed 
that she had not, the moral courage to resist that ap- 
petite which seemed now to preside over and wield the 
very sceptre of her soul. Reason, intuition, even affec- 
tion, were still left to her : will could have saved her — 
alas ! it was will alone that appeared hopelessly want- 
ing ! As I conversed with her, I felt the growth of a 
too certain foreboding that my efforts were ineffectual — 
that my arguments, while they were all assented to, 
were making no real and durable impression. With 
saddened feelings I left the house, pondering upon 
Amelia’s suicidal course, upon the tenacity with which 
in after-years our early habits cling to us, and upon the 
supreme necessity of our starting aright if we would 
reach a happy termination of life’s journey. 

January 16th, 3 o’clock p. m. I was at this date 
again summoned to proceed to the bedside of Amelia. 
I hastily answered the call, anticipating nothing less 
than the repetition of the harrowing scene of the 
previous month. And my anticipations were terribly 
realized. I was ushered into the bedroom of Amelia 


physician’s journal. 


117 


B , who was again my patient, and there was the 

fearful tragedy re-acted, but with this difference, that 
this time the act was short, and its finale terrific. Soon 
after my entrance into the room Amelia opened her eyes, 
and the sight of them enabled me to read the condition 
of her brain. Gazing in all the horror of a wild de- 
lirium upon me, she exclaimed in a now deep and sepul- 
chral voice, and which grated harshly on my ears, 
“More ! more ! — brandy — rum — gin — any thing to drink: 
I love it still !” These were her last words ; and those 
words, with that ghastly, almost inhuman and un- 
earthly look, I shall never forget; for they are daguerre- 
otyped on my very soul. The unhappy woman sank 
back upon her pillow. I placed my finger on her pulse — 
it had ceased to beat. The once hale, beautiful, and 

happy Amelia B was dead — was now the wan, 

haggard, inebriate’s corpse before me. 

I filled out the certificate of her death, and as, oppo- 
site the words “ Cause of death” I penned, “ Conges- 
tion of the brain,” I felt a desire to add the more 
remote, but also the real cause — “ Wine and spirituous 
liquors ” 

In Greenwood Cemetery, that “ great city of the 
dead,” may be seen a white marble slab, on which is in- 
scribed these simple words : 

AMELIA, 

WIFE OF 

HENRY L . 

0 young man or young woman ! who may read this 
simple but “ ower true tale,” think it not a trifling mat- 
ter to sip with delicate relish, or through a false cour- 


118 


LEAVES FROM A 


tesy, at the wine-cup. Remember how apparently small 
matters, suffered to pass unheeded, have wrought the 
deepest loss or irretrievable ruin. A broken buckle, by 
permitting his saddle to slip, once proved the ruin of a 
strong warrior ; and seemingly little matters have led 
to the loss of priceless human souls. As well, indeed, 
might you expect to fondle in your bosoms the deadly 
asp, and not at last feel the grasp of its venomous fangs, 
and then the subtle infusion of their poison coursing 
through your life-current, as to suppose that you can 
form and continue the habit of sipping at the wine or 
whiskey, and not become, first a lover of it, and then 
its slave. Listen to counsel the wisdom of which the 
world has never been able to question : 

“ Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it 
givetli his color in the cup, when it movetli itself aright : 
at the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an 
adder.” 

“ Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging, and who- 
soever is deceived thereby is not wise.” 

I love that good old Washingtonian motto, “ Touch 
not, taste not, handle not the unclean thing.” 

I recall at this moment an incident in the life of the 
great Arabian impostor, Mohammed, that well illustrates 
the idea of the danger of even a little indulging in alco- 
holic stimulants which I wish to convey. The so-called 
Prophet had, in the course of his career, captured the 
citadel of Khaibar. A Jewish captive, named Zainab, 
determined to destroy the conqueror, and for this pur- 
pose procured a deadly poison, which she secreted in the 
meat prepared for his repast. So adroitly was this done 
that the plan was wholly undetected, and the smoking 


physician’s journal. 


119 


viand was placed before the Prophet. Suspecting no 
danger, he began to partake of it ; but at the first taste, 
discovering something unusual, he at once spat the mor- 
sel from his mouth. He soon, however, felt internal pain. 
In that brief period there had been absorbed enough of 
the poison to affect him through life. Many were the 
seasons of agony he endured ; and in his dying mo- 
ments, when writhing with pain, he exclaimed, “ The 
veins of my heart are throbbing with the poison of 
Khaibar.” 

Horace Mann once said that “ the capital of health 
may all be forfeited by one physical misdemeanor.” And 
though you may intend to partake of but one glass, and 
never of the second, yet its drugged condition, or the 
potency of the enchantment that flows from its effect, 
may render it such a physical and moral poison, that, 
like the Oriental prophet, on your death-bed you may be 
brought to exclaim, “ The veins of my heart are throb- 
bing with the poison of that first glass.” Reader and 
hearer 1 be entreated to pause at the threshold of temp- 
tation, and, though the intoxicating cup may be proffered 

to you by hands as fair as those of Amelia B , yet 

remember her unhappy death, and have the moral courage 
to say, with as much of politeness as the circumstances 
may require, but with an unwavering decision, “No 1” 



120 


LEAVES FROM A 


DEATH AT THE BRIDAL ALTAR. 



WEDDING 1 what joyous emotions, anticipa- 
tions, hopes, preparations, forecastings, and 
anxieties, does it not call up and intensify ? 
The young, who are entering into its joys, 
little dream of its responsibilities, cares, and trials ; and 
this is wisely ordained, else the world would be depopu- 
lated. The aged, with all its variations of light and 
shade, recognize it as one chief source of human bliss, 
and rejoice in the prospect of the future of their sons 
and daughters in life. Thus the world goes on, “giving 
and being given in marriage,” and shall go on until the 
great “ marriage-supper of the Lamb,” when an eternal 
union shall be celebrated between the sainted dead now 
resurrected, and the ever-living Bridegroom, who for 
ages has been preparing His Bride with her adorning, 
to be received by Him forever. 

“ I shall have a busy day to-morrow,” thought I, as I 
folded up a neat little gold-fringed note inviting me to a 
wedding at the house of a highly respected patron : “ I 
have made arrangements to attend the funeral, at two 
p. m., of an intimate and much-esteemed friend, who has 
suddenly died from coup-de-soleil (sun-stroke). To attend 
to these, with my usual round of sick-visiting, will surely 
keep me stirring.” 


physician’s journal. 


121 


Such is a physician’s life in a great city. In the 
morning he is visiting the sick, and often counselling, 
and comforting, and instructing them ; or by the bed of 
death, listening to the last words of the departing : in 
the afternoon standing by the bed of some dead friend 
or stranger ; and in the evening he is found amid the gay 
throng who have gathered, it may be, to pay homage at 
the hymeneal altar. 

Tired, weary, and sad — for the weariness of the body, 
and passing through so many scenes of human woe, 
sometimes becloud the mind — I entered the carriage in 
waiting for me, and was rapidly whirled along to the 

splendid mansion of Mr. John , street, whose 

elegant daughter was to be given away to his chief 
book-keeper. 

Carriages lined the street for some distance, and more 
were coming ; and the elegant, the beautiful, and the 
gay of both sexes were crowding the street doorway, 
and filing up the halls and stairways. Making my way 
through the crowd as best I could, I was gladly wel- 
comed, and stowed away in a small anteroom, where the 
immediate relatives, their own pastor, and a brother 
clergyman of the pastor were seated. The grand par- 
lor was a blaze of light ; and the rich furniture, the 
velvet carpets, the magnificent mantel, and other orna- 
ments, shone with resplendent lustre. 

The bustle and commotion, though quite subdued, the 
presentation of all new-comers by ushers, and the run- 
ning up and down the stairways, made a continuous 
hum, like the roll of muffled drums in the distance. 

And now the doors are thrown wide apart, and we 
emerge into the great parlors, and await the coming of 

G 


122 


LEAVES FROM A 


the hymeneal party. The tittering chit-chat of beaux 
and belles is now hushed, and the bride and groom, 
preceded by three bride’s-maids and groom’s-men, enter 
and file off and take their places. 

How beautiful she is — so young and fair ! Dressed 
in plain white satin, with no tawdry jewelry, save one 
plain gold ring — no meretricious ornaments, and only 
one beautiful rose in her hair, and a white veil which 
hangs gracefully over her fair shoulders, partly conceal- 
ing her flowing curls — 11 simplex munditiis Horace, the 
Latin poet, would apply to her, which, fully translated, 
means, “ elegant simplicity.” 

But her pale face, save one bright spot in her cheek, 
and her trembling hand, as it is placed in the hand of 
her intended, however well controlled her outward form 
and features may be, give evidence of intense excite- 
ment. Her beautiful black eyes have a strange, glassy, 
abstracted look ; and a suppressed flutter of the heart, 
manifested by short, laborious, and contracted breath- 
ing, give an unpleasant sensation to the experienced eye 
of a physician. 

And now the ceremony begins. She slightly bends 
her gentle head, and repeats her part of the ceremony 
falteringly. 

The twain are now one flesh, and she leans gracefully 
on her husband’s shoulder and arm, when suddenly she 
falls prostrate on the floor— dead ! Parents, friends, the 
frantic husband, the bride’s-maids, the groom’s-men, and 
all, instantly surround her. 

A loud wail is raised, and every one is in terror and 
confusion. Eyes unused to weeping shed briny tears. 
She is now carried to the little anteroom, and I examine 


physician's journal. 


123 


her and pronounce her dead — not one spark of life re- 
maining ; hut, faithful to my mission, and to silence all 
clamors and doubts, I applied restoratives, friction ; and 
other medical aid is summoned — but in vain : the vital 
spark has fled — the soul has escaped from the noise, the 
show, the riches, the splendors, the flatteries, the gayety, 
the bridal altar, to that far-off land where all are young, 
and where friends fondly cherished have gone before. 

But the deep agony, the loud cries, that neither wealth, 
nor fashion, nor a trained education could suppress, of 
the parents, brothers, and sisters, and the poor bereaved 
young husband, were heart-rending. 

The chief portion of the company soon left — the thought- 
less, the mere pleasure-seekers, to whom death is always 
a terror and an intruder ; for what was present for them 
now save tears, groans, and shrieks ? Many, however, 
could not tear themselves from the spot ; and although 
they came to the house of feasting, they found the house 
of mourning “ better,” — better in its lessons of sympa- 
thy, inward communings, and prospective reflections. 

As she lay enshrouded in the white robes of Hymen, 
I thought how brief her day, how sudden her call, how 
soon the rose withered, and how soon would her ashes 
mingle with its kindred dust ! 

The husband of a minute was frantic with grief. He 
seemed oblivious of every thing external, and either 
knew not or cared not who saw his terrible grief. He 
fell on her dead body, kissed her yet warm lips, and 
passionately exclaimed — 

“ Cordelia ! oh, Cordelia 1 it cannot be that thou hast 
left me. Speak, dearest, speak ! this heart is bursting.” 

He could not, in the beautiful words of the poet, 


124 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ make her dead.” He seized her hand, but there was 
no answering pressure, and it fell with a dull sound on 
the sofa. He placed his hands upon her face and moved 
her head to either side, but the staring eyes, the pale 
face, the marble brow and rigid features, gave no re- 
sponse to his cries and tears, and he sank on the floor 
beside her, overwhelmed with the awful truth that she 
had gone forever from his embrace. 

Cut off thus in an instant from his glowing future, 
hurled from the highest pinnacle of anticipated joy, bereft 
of hope, and the life-blood of his young heart stagnated 
in its sources, he gave himself up to an impassioned 
despair. He tore his hair with his hands ; he scattered 
broadcast his marriage ornaments, and seemed on the 
brink of self-destruction. 

His mother rushed in her tears to his side, threw her 
arms around him, and by a mother’s power — a power 
only next to God’s over human suffering — besought him 
•to remember the consequences to himself and his friends. 

He clasped his mother in his arms, arrested thus by 
her love, her agony, and tears; and less boisterously, 
but even more impressively, said — 

“ Oh, mother, my manhood is gone, my heart is broken, 
and what is there left for me when Cordelia is no 
more ?” 

Seated on the floor, and encircled in each other’s 
arms, mother and son shed their tears together, and 
looked the picture of despair. We gathered around 
them, for the sorrows of the living now engrossed the 
hearts of all present. 

The parents of the dead bride and the living hus- 
band, the brothers and sisters, all in their gayest attire. 


physician’s journal. 125 

gathered around the young husband, and all wept 
convulsively at the catastrophe. As I stood for a mo- 
ment — for I dared not look longer — what a scene 
pressed on my aching brain ! — a group dressed in the 
magnificent array of a bridal party, whose faces wore 
the gloom of the dead — a party of revellers, on the 
ocean of life, suddenly overtaken with the storm, ship- 
wrecked and going to the depths of the ocean — scenes 
opening with the brilliancy of the rainbow hues, sud- 
denly turned into the dark, sombre midnight of death ! 

Every thing grand and imposing of preparation still 
remained the same. The glare and brilliancy of the gas 
chandeliers were yet undimmed, the doors stood open 
to receive the guests, the splendid supper still smoked 
on the tables; but the partakers, the festive throng, 
had all gone, save the few crowded in the little ante- 
room, looking upon the pale face of the departed and 
the gloom of the living. 

I slowly and quietly retired, for my work was done, 
reflecting on the instability of human affairs. 

As I stood a few steps from the house, looking upon 
it in sorrow, one after another of the lights went out, 
the doors were closed, and darkness covered the whole 
scene. 

I looked up into the heavens above me: the stars 
were glittering in silence, and the moon began to show 
her full, round, placid face just above the horizon, and I 
said — 

“ Tell me, ye calm, silent watchers of human fates, 
ye measurers of time and season, do you direct the af- 
fairs of men?” 

But a voice— the voice of inspiration — whispered in 


126 


LEAVES FROM A 


my ear, “ God ruleth in the armies of heaven, and among 
the children of men.” 

The next time I entered the dwelling, it was to pay 
the last sad offices of respect to the young and beauti- 
ful bride, now cold in death, still dressed in her wedding 
robes and prepared for the tomb — an account of which, 
and her sudden death, appeared in the daily papers, 
which some of my readers may call up to their mourn- 
ful recollection. 



physician’s journal. 


127 


THE BRIDE OF A FORTNIGHT— AND OF A TEAR. 

A CASE OF DEATH BY FALSE TEETH. 


3^^^ISTORY,’ , it has been aptly said, “ is philosophy 
</^ipsL teaching by example.” If we understand the 
examples to be, not the crises and the destinies 
that overtake nations, but the events and the 
consequences that befall individuals, then we can, with 
propriety, transfer the maxim from general to personal 
history. The story of the sorrows, joys, difficulties, and 
triumphs of almost any individual life, could we be al- 
lowed to scan it, would be found replete with an ab- 
sorbing interest, and often with a real instruction. 

Indeed, when we study the history of past ages, it is 
not the building up or the toppling down of vast inter- 
ests, of grand enterprises, and of mighty nations, that 
interests us the most deeply ; it is rather the fortunes 
and the fates of living men and women — of people who, 
whether above or below us in the spheres of social and 
civil life, possessed, after all, the same feelings and pas- 
sions, and in some degree the same aspirations, with 
ourselves, and whose histories have been in reality 
counterparts of our own. 

“ All the world’s a stage, 

And all the men and women merely players,” 


128 


LEAVES FROM A 

truthfully said the greatest of English poets ; and the 
actual tragedies and comedies of life are no less terrible 
or absorbing than the fictitious representations of them 
given us by the votaries of the mimic art. 

Among all the factors that, throughout the ages, have 
entered into the conduct of human lives, and that have 
gone to determine their result, perhaps no single one 
has been more potent and influential than the passion of 
Love. And to readers and thinkers of every age, but 
especially to the young, nothing in biography, fiction, or 
poetry is of more deep and absorbing interest than are 
the workings of the human heart under the sway of this 
controlling passion. With some show of reason may 
the aged carp at all this : but well, nevertheless, may 
the philosopher strive to analyze the sentiment and its 
effects, the biographer and the novelist to record its 
waywardness and its vicissitudes, and the dramatist to 
depict in glowing colors its power, its pains, and its 
pleasures : for it is a truth that love is pre-eminently the 
encircling chain of life — a golden cord that runs through 
all its relationships and experiences, and that embraces 
and helps to bind together the individual members of 
society, under all its forms. 

In a true sense may it be said, in fact, that if man is 
to be regarded as the ground-work of the community — 
as its warp — it is the fairer portion of our race, it is 
woman, that constitutes all the while the interlacing 
thread — the woof — that binds the otherwise isolated and 
unharmonizing fibres into one complete and noble fabric. 
Endowed as she is with all the tenderest sensibilities, 
woman is by nature constituted for life’s highest enjoy- 
ments, as for the fulfilment also of its really highest 


physician’s journal. 129 

duties. The mother, actual and prospective, of the race, 
and removed as she is from direct participation in the 
more selfish and rude struggles of life, is it to be won- 
dered at that the heart should become the chief sphere of 
her enjoyments, her triumphs, and her sorrows ? 

But in this changeful life of ours, the heart may have 
its finest sensibilities developed only to become the seat 
of so much the deeper pain and suffering ; and all the 
rare qualifications that fit one for, and seem to betoken, 
a happy and useful life, may serve only to make so much 
more “shining” the mark that falls early under the shaft 
of death. And thus it was, alas ! with the “ bright, 
particular star” who will form the subject of this simple 
narrative. 

Elizabeth J was, from my earliest recollection of 

her — and we were children together for years, though 
afterwards separated for some time — a person of extra- 
ordinary gifts and attractions — such as a child, as a 
maiden, and in her married life. Born of parents at 
once highly respectable, affluent, and religious, and who 
held high positions in church and state, it was but natu- 
ral that all that a high morality, excellent means of edu- 
cation, and good society could contribute, should be 
availed of to impart to her superior natural qualifica- 
tions a tone and finish of the highest character. And 
along with these social, religious, and educational ad- 
vantages, Elizabeth possessed, at the same time, a 
beauty of features and symmetry of form, and a native 
dignity of manner, which of themselves went far to 
make her the “ observed of all observers,” and to win 
her, wherever she might go, admirers among the oppo- 
site sex. Her engaging powers of conversation, her 

6 * 


130 


LEAVES FROM A 


sprightly flow of raillery or wit, and her easy, graceful 
manners, were among all a theme of admiration, while, 
for the comparative few who could appreciate these 
greater excellences, her marked freedom from personal 
and even womanly vanity, and her amiability and kind- 
ness of heart, added at once to a beautiful person and 
character their highest charms. 

While yet a child, Elizabeth had laid all her powers 
of mind and soul at the foot of the Cross ; and when, in 
the full maturity of womanhood, she came to die, she 
still clung to this as her chief, her final refuge. But 
neither beauty, talent, natural or acquired, womanly 
tenderness, nor manly magnanimity, nor even the love of 
the Saviour, exempts us from encountering the storms 
and buffetings of life. 

When Elizabeth was but twelve years of age, a deep 
sorrow already threw its murky shadows over her gen- 
tle spirit. Smitten down at the same time with a loved 
brother and sister by a fell disease, it was hers to watch 
the dark-winged angel of death that barely passed her 
by, but at the same time to feel the clutch of the skele- 
ton hand tearing her heart-strings, as that brother and 
sister were laid low in the grave. The bereavement 
was a sad blow to her parents ; but for them the dark 
cloud had its “ silver lining it was the sparing to 
them of her own life and society. And she grew dearer 
and more precious to them through their affliction, even 
as the rainbow is more resplendent against the darkness 
of the summer’s storm, when the rays of golden light, 
beaming forth from the bosom of the thunder-cloud, 
make it as beautiful as if an angel had kissed it ! To 
Elizabeth herself the bereavement was in one sense still 


physician’s journal. 


131 


more sad ; for it robbed her of her childhood’s society, 
and left her to wander alone through the long years 
that lay on her way up to womanhood. 

Together with her parents, and to her it was for the 
first time, she poured forth scalding tears upon the mar- 
ble brows of the loved ones as they lay together in one 
coffin ; and, with her parents, she often repaired after- 
wards to scatter the flowers of affection on the grave in 
which they together reposed. 

The prophet has said, “ The righteotis perisheth and 
no man layeth it to heart,” “ none considering that” they 
are “taken away from the evil to come.” With how 
much more truth and force may we say this, in many 
instances certainly, of children whom death snatches 
from us, and who are thus mercifully exempted from the 
evils that befall too many who are spared to long life ! 

Little indeed did Elizabeth’s parents or herself dream 
for how harsh and sad a fate, in being rescued in her 
childhood from the brink of the grave, she was in reality 
reserved. 

Arrived at the age of eighteen years, the subject of 
my story was now in the pride of her maidenly beauty 
—her features rather delicate than otherwise ; eyes 
large, black, mild, and lustrous ; hair dark, wavy, and 
in rich abundan'ce ; nose slightly aquiline ; and a cheek 
softly tinted with rose. Was it strange that such a 
woman should be spoken of by all who knew her as a 
prize richly worth the seeking — as a rose of rare excel- 
lence which should be plucked by some fortunate hand 
from the parent stem? Numerous were her admirers, 
and many her suitors. But from them all James S 
bore away the coveted prize. Neither so rich as many, 


132 


LEAVES FROM A 


nor yet so handsome as some, in the train who paid 
court to Elizabeth, and resorting to less of flattery, to 
less of effort to please, and to a less undivided attention, 
he nevertheless alone won her heart. Modest even to a 
fault, plain in his manners, and simple and ingenuous in 
his address, he was one in whom, through all these dis- 
advantages of the suitor, her woman’s heart detected 
the sterling qualities of the man, and it was these that 
endeared him to her. 

James S was, at the time, only twenty-two years 

old. The son of a merchant, brought up in the strictest 
integrity, manly — in spite of his modesty — in his form 
and bearing, and endowed with a superior intellect, the 
accepted suitor towered, in the estimation of his affi- 
anced and of her parents, high above the throng of but- 
terflies who displayed their gay colors and airy manners, 
and who for their success relied, not so much on real 
merits, as on all manner of borrowed graces and as- 
sumed excellences. 

One year from the time of their first meeting, the 
affianced pair stood together before Hymen’s altar. The 
marriage ceremony was performed in the same church 
in which, many years before, the now accomplished 
woman and happy bride had, as she then lay an infant 
in her mother’s arms, had the bapfismal waters poured 
upon her childish face. Her parents stood by with min- 
gled feelings, not without tears, though those tears were 
like the few bright drops that distil from some summer’s 
cloud ; and like those, they just sufficed to show the 
rainbow — in this case it was a bow of joy and hope ! 
The mother felt a deep pride at her daughter’s happi- 
ness, yet a sorrow — and what mother has not, under 


physician’s journal. 


133 


similar circumstances, felt thus ? — at parting with a 
household idol. Her father’s eyes beamed, too, with all 
a father’s blessing. There were crowds, besides the 
immediate circle of relatives, to witness that festive 
scene. A few there were who came there with feelings 
of bitter disappointment and chagrin at their own rejec- 
tion as suitors ; but the larger number of those who were 
present felt only interest and pleasure ; for of Elizabeth 
J it could be said with almost universal truth — 

“ None knew her but to love her, 

None named her but to praise.” 

And for the bride herself, her cup of joy was now full ; 
her hopes were high, her anticipations golden ; and, 
with a loving husband, the blessings of all upon her, 
and the approving smile of Heaven felt in her own 
heart, why should not her young heart rejoice ? 

One evening, only a few days after the wedding, the 
young couple were sitting on the veranda of her fa- 
ther’s house ; and they had already passed some time in 
picturing out to themselves their prospective arrange- 
ments for a home of their own, and in anticipating many 
and happy days in their future. But there was still a 
shade of reserve and sadness in the manner of both, 
which each one could perceive in the other, yet neither 
wished to speak of, and which deepened as the hour 
wore on. At length Mr. S broke through his hesi- 

tation, and his words led to a mutual understanding of 
the causes of this unwelcome undertone of sorrow. 

“ Elizabeth,” he said, “ I learned late this afternoon 
of a duty that appears to fall to me, and which I have 
felt it — I don’t know why— hard to mention to you.” 


134 : 


LEAVES FROM A 


The young wife started slightly, for her own feelings 
made her apprehensive of some evil ; but she listened 
with composure. James continued: “There are some 
matters of business to be looked after for my father, who 
is old now and indisposed, and that require immediate 
attention ; and I shall, I think, have to leave in the 
morning for a brief tour to the West.” 

At this announcement an undisguised shade of sad- 
ness gathered on the young wife’s brow, and a silent 
tear made its way down her cheek. The husband drew 
her nearer to him, wiped away the tear, and said : 
11 Dearest Elizabeth, it will only be for a few days. And 
you will be with your kind parents : then, why do you 
weep ?” 

“ I can scarcely tell,” she answered, “ why I should 
weep, or should feel as I do ; yet there is one thing that 
troubles my mind. I am no believer in dreams, omens, 
or superstitious tokens. My religion, my education, pa- 
rental teachings — all forbid that: yet — yet” — sh' hesi- 
tated, sighed heavily, and then continued — “ there is a 
fear of some impending danger, or calamity, or a feeling 
of it — of something that appears to threaten you, dear- 
est, or myself, or my parents, and that I cannot shake 
off.” 

“ Oh, hush such fears,” Mr. S expostulated ; “ this 

feeling is but the remembrance pf the lost and loved ; 
or it is a reaction of the very joy of our honeymoon ; or 
— I cannot tell what : but no matter what ; will you not 
banish it at once ?” 

He rose from his seat, drew her arm within his own, 
and directed her attention to a beautiful eglantine in a 
corner of the garden, and one which her own hands had 


physician’s journal. 


135 


planted. She gazed on it a moment, and then said : 
“ James, do you remember Mrs. Sigourney’s two verses 
of poetry on the tulip and the eglantine ?” 

“No, my dear ; what were they ?” 

“ I cannot repeat them,” she said, “ but she makes the 
eglantine the flower of love, and speaks of it as planted 
in a humble spot in the garden, and out of sight ; while 
the gaudy tulip occupied a prominent place, and at- 
tracted the observation of all passers. I would be the 
eglantine, but not to die in silence and in a corner, as 
mine is doing. See ! even now it droops, and is with- 
ering.” 

“Why, how is this?” her husband replied; “you turn 
even the beautiful flowers into the melancholy mood 
your own mind has assumed.” 

She threw her arms around his neck, leaned her head 
on his bosom, and said — 

“ Do not think me weak ; but I must tell you my 
drea^ which I had last night. You may remember, 
perhaps, what the great English moralist has said: ‘De- 
spise not dreams — they may be true ; and do not trust 
them — they may be false !’ Will you hear the dream ?” 

“ Certainly, dearest ! any thing that you wish is my 
highest pleasure.” 

They sat down, and the young wife began — 

“ I dreamed that we were in a pleasant garden, sur- 
rounded by delicious fruits and fragrant flowers; that 
you were at my side, and had just given me a beauti- 
ful rose; and that, as I inhaled the perfume of the 
flower, a fine butterfly with golden wings lighted upon 
it. We stood admiring the creature, when, suddenly, 
it changed into a hateful serpent, and then threw its 


136 


LEAVES FROM A 


fearful folds around me. I screamed, and, running from 
the spot, strove to throw off the reptile; but in vain. It 
continued to encircle me with its leaden, cold, and slimy 
folds. Then I cried to you for help; but when I next 
beheld you, you were changed into the form of an angel. 
You were slowly rising in the air above me. To all 
my cries you only returned a mournful smile; and on 
your brow I could read, in golden letters, the word 
‘ Above V I awoke and wept, wondering at my dream; 
and I strove to throw off its impressions, but could 
not. , ’ 

James listened in silence to the recital of this strange 
dream; and it must be acknowledged that its singular 
and seemingly apposite details troubled his own mind a 
little. Presently he said — 

“ I will not go, Elizabeth, if you have any forebodings 
of evil; although of course there is not, nor can there 
be, any thing in the vagaries of a dream. I will go 
over at once and make some excuse that will satisfy 
father; and he may suggest some one of the clerks to 
take my place, and accompany my brother on the 
journey.” 

Just at this time, the rising moon began to send its 
soft rays between the surrounding trees, and through 
the vines and flowers which intertwined before and 
overhung the veranda; while the evening zephyrs still 
breathed among the flowers, kissing off their aroma, 
and bearing it through all the air about the spot, and 
even into the opened windows. 

Elizabeth’s parents were, at the moment, standing by 
a window not far off, enjoying the cool evening breeze, 
and venturing, with parental tenderness, to look on the 


physician’s journal. 


137 


young couple in the heyday of their earliest nuptial life. 
As James turned to enter the house, his eye caught 
sight of the old people; and, uncertain whether they 
might not have overheard some part of the conversa- 
tion that had just passed, he at once resumed it, by say- 
ing to them — 

“ Now, what do you think ? Elizabeth has been tell- 
ing me a dream , to prevent my going on that journey 
to-morrow.” 

“ Pooh, pooh I” said her father, “ she has not turned 
superstitious, I hope — and after all our teachings.” 

“But Pll not go,” James rejoined; and he looked ap- 
provingly at his young wife, who remained silent, with 
her pale face fixed on the floor of the veranda. James 
was now about to depart to make the necessary arrange- 
ments for his remaining at home. 

“ Stay a moment!” she said to him; and the whole 
group entered the parlor, and seated themselves in con- 
versation. 

Presently the door-bell rang, and troops of friends 
were ushered into the parlor, to call on the bride and 
groom, some of them with excuses for their tardiness 
in not having presented themselves earlier. General 
conversation ensued; and the dream, with the cloudy 
feelings it induced, were soon forgotten in the con- 
gratulations, the flow of sociability and merriment, 
and the accompanying refreshments of the hour. 

Ten o’clock soon came, and James whispered to his 
young wife — 

“I must now retire and see about this business, 
though it is late.” 

But she took his hand between both her own, looked 


138 


LEAVES FROM A 


up into his face, and in a manner now firm and com- 
posed, said — 

“ You must go now. It is my decided wish. You 
know, ‘ there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough- 
hew them as we will.’ In the fall of a sparrow there is 
an especial Providence.” 

The husband felt that his services were really needed 
in the proposed business, and his wife’s manner now re- 
assured him. 

The morning light saw James prepared for his jour- 
ney in company with his brother. The young wife 
strove to calm her palpitating heart, but a silent, unob- 
served tear would, in spite of her strongest effort, be- 
dim her sight as she hurriedly aided in the prepara- 
tions for the journey. She stood by her husband’s side 
at the door, as the carriage drove up that was to 
remove him from her sight, and it might be — she 
could not repress the thought — forever. There was a 
parting kiss, a fond farewell, and a prayer, “ May God 
bring you back in safety,” and then away rolled the 
carriage that contained her husband, yet happy in the 
hope of a speedy return. The wife retired to her bed- 
chamber, to think, to suffer her first feelings of bereave- 
ment, and to weep. 

Two weeks rolled on ; letters from the absent one 
had been received and their contents eagerly devoured ; 
and now the lightning’s flash, which still told of health 
and of success in the business, brought also the more 
welcome news of the prospect of an immediate return. 
The young wife’s heart danced with joy at the thought 
Two days more, and her James, her idol, would once 
more embrace his now lonely bride. 


physician’s journal. 


139 


She cast about in her mind for something with which, 
if possible, to show her love as she had never yet shown 
it. She determined to have more than one surprise for 
her husband’s return. There was a pair of new slippers, 
which she had worked with her own hands, to encase 
those feet whose footfalls — so soon to be heard — would 
send a thrill of joy to her bounding heart. Then there 
was a rich rosewood bookcase which she had procured, 
and which she was filling with choice books, that they 
would both so well love to con over ; and she would 
order a new writing-desk to match, and would have the 
two fine, large photographic likenesses of them both set 
together in a costly frame, so that, thus appropriately 
united, they should be among the first things to greet 
his eye on his return. 

But the day passed and James did not appear. Even- 
ing wore away, and still he came not ; and the small 
hours of the night found the lonely wife tossing un- 
easily, half awake, half dreaming, upon her couch. 
Pale, nervous, and anxious, she seated herself the next 
morning at the breakfast-table. 

The bell rings : a flush crimsons her cheek, and with- 
out waiting for the servant she bounds to the door, ex- 
pecting her James. Disappointment again ! A letter 
is handed to her. She reads the superscription — the ad- 
dress being to herself. 

“It must be a dispatch from James!” she exclaims 
to her father, who is approaching. 

She tears the envelope open. Lo ! there is within 
only a long slip — a telegraphic dispatch ! Holding one 
end of the slip, while her father takes the other, she 
reads : 


140 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Mr. S , one of two brothers of that name, was killed 

last night in an accident on the railroad, fifty miles west of 
Philadelphia” 

She dropped the slip, faltered, and nearly fell, but was 
caught by her father. A sickening sensation came over 
her ; she was deathly pale, and her heart beat violently. 

A thousand thoughts, questions, and fears rushed 
through her brain. It was the same name — the sur- 
name, that is, for it afterwards appeared that her hus- 
band’s brother, who was not injured, purposely tele- 
graphed in the manner above seen, in order to leave 

Mrs. S ’s mind in suspense for a time, and prevent a 

sudden and overwhelming shock to her feelings. It 
was, Elizabeth felt, in no way likely there were any two 
but her husband and brother-in-law on the train, and 
who would also be brothers. It must be one of the two 

who had set forth from B only a fortnight before, 

and in the destiny of one of whom her own heart and 
life were so wrapped up. But which of them was it ? 
For there was no questioning the appalling news — one 
of them was dead ! Could it be, indeed, her husband ? 
Her very anxiety almost assured her that it must be he ; 
and then, that terrible dream I She knew it was selfish- 
ness — and yet, perhaps, such selfishness of the heart that 
loves is pardonable — but she could not help feeling, at 
times, the earnest hope that the victim was still not her 
husband. She was hung, as by a hair, over that yawn- 
ing precipice that too often threatens reason and life — 
alarming suspense. 

“ 0 God !” she exclaimed, and she fell on her knees 
on the floor, “ can it be he V* 

Elizabeth covered her face with her hands, but the 


physician’s journal. 


141 


fountain of her tears was dry — she was past weeping. 
Her suspense was terrible ; in truth, it was worse, if 
that were possible, than to know at once the crushing 
reality which she feared. As with the young maiden, 
who, having at the Falls of Niagara stretched out her 
hand to pluck a flower that jutted from the rock just be- 
neath, and having lost her balance and fallen over the 
brink of the precipice, was, by the catching of her dress, 
suspended for a few awful moments over the seething, 
boiling cauldron of the abyss below, before she finally 
dropped into it, so was it now with the young wife. 
She was suspended by the mere hold of a feeble possi- 
bility over the gulf into which, to the wreck and loss of 
all her new-found hopes and joys, she was soon to be 
plunged. And thus, for six long hours, she hung over 
her dreadful precipice of despair, holding still but the 
faintest of hopes. 

The terrible truth came at last ; and, as the poor dev- 
otee is crushed beneath the Juggernaut — as the eagle, 
struck by the unerring marksman, falls from his calm 
poise in the zenith — so Elizabeth sank under the crushing 
blow. With one wild, heart-rending scream she received 
the dreadful announcement, and then fell senseless on 
the floor. 

Slowly she came out of her paroxysm of grief, and it 
was evident that, for a time, her mind was in part wan- 
dering. With dishevelled hair, and eyes rolling wildly, 
she said, in a husky voice, and with broken accents : 

“ My dream has come true. The rose he gave me is 
faded ; but the serpent’s folds are about me, and I can- 
not .fly its presence, nor escape its power. Death and 
the grave are mine ; but he is an angel now, and is 


142 


LEAVES FROM A 


smiling sadly upon me.” Then, with a wild start, she 
screamed — “ See there 1 see ! — his mangled body — torn, 
scattered — and the blood ! — the blood of my beloved, 
the ground drinks it up ! Oh, God I oh, father !” And 
springing upon her knees on her bed, and clasping her 
hands, with her eyes fixed on vacancy, she exclaimed, 
“ I see him now — now /” and then fell back, exhausted 
by the intensity of her emotions. 

The stricken wife rallied slowly from this paroxysm 
of feeling, and then she bewailed in sadness her fate 
and her husband’s untimely end. “Cut off,” she said 
mournfully, “ like a fresh-blooming flower, in the morn- 
ing of life ! — his career of manhood, when it had but 
just begun, seared at once by the wintry blast, and 
turned to the shadow of death 1 And for me, to be 
drowned in the waters of sorrow, just when hope seemed 
the brightest ! — to be wrecked at the very entrance of 
the haven !” Then, with a smile of resignation, she 
continued : “ But he’s in heaven now, with the great 
company in robes of white ; while I am still in the 
darkness — wandering yet in the labyrinths of a myste- 
rious Providence. Oh that I had wings to fly to his 
presence, or that death might have embraced and borne 
us both away at once 1 for what now is life to me, who 
am tasting the bitterness of death ?” 

Four days after, the mangled remains of James S 

were carried for the funeral solemnities to the same 
church in which, as already mentioned, Elizabeth had in 
her infancy received baptism, and in which, but three 
brief weeks before this sorrowful day, the nuptials of 
the two had been so happily celebrated. And the coffin 
was placed upon the very spot on which they two had 


physician’s journal. 


143 

stood when she gave him her hand and they were joined 
“ in holy matrimony !” This day the church was again 
crowded, but with a sad concourse ; and they who had 
so lately rejoiced with the bride, now shed tears in sym- 
pathy with her own over the Urn which held the ashes 
of her love and her hopes. 

The services are over : and now, “ Mournfully, ten- 
derly, bear on the dead !” Yield up again — “ Ashes to 
ashes, and dust to dust.” And as the sad duty is being 
performed, the young widow is carried, broken-hearted, 
and more like a living corpse than aught else, away to 
the room in which still waited the very surprises she had 
hoped would so delight her returning husband ! 

With closed curtains, and almost in darkness, without 
food and without sleep, for three days the stricken and 
inconsolable wife mourned the hopes that had left her. 
Her weeping mother still kept by her side. Her devoted 
father wept as bitterly in heart, but silently. Friends 
came and strove to comfort her ; but in vain. At times 
she half sang, half spoke, the simple, plaintive words of 
a song that had often occupied her thoughts in the hap- 
pier moods of her past years : 

“ Now lock my chamber, mother dear ! 

And say you left me sleeping ; 

But never tell his noble sire 
Of all this bitter weeping. 

Sleep ne’er again shall end in joy, 

Nor waking hours reprieve it ; 

For there’s a pang at my young heart 
That never more shall leave it. 

“ Oh, let me lie and weep my fill 

O’er wounds that heal shall never 1 


144 


LEAVES FROM A 


And, kindest Heaven ! were it tliy will. 

These eyes should close forever. 

For ne’er could longest life replace 
That love which death has taken. 

Nor from this heart its woe efface — 

Forever, now, forsaken !” 

Poor Elizabeth S became but the remnant of her 

former self. Her buoyancy, her spirits, her natural, 
quiet joyousness, were all gone. Almost daily she 
wandered in loneliness and sorrow to the spot where 
the sacred dust of her husband reposed. She planted 
flowers upon his grave, and bedewed them with the 
priceless wealth of the tears of heartfelt affection. 
Throughout the year, and in all seasons — amid the sum- 
mer’s heat or the winter’s cold — might this faithful 
devotee of a buried love be seen by that grave, and 
often kneeling upon it. Sometimes, in winter, she 
would scrape away the snow, that she might kneel the 
nearer to all that was left of her husband; and looking 
up to the blue heaven above, she would weep, and pray 
that in God’s own good time her body might sleep 
peacefully by his side, and her spirit be united with 
his in the great company of worshippers on high. 

Time, it is true, mitigated this deep grief ; but the 
image of him who had been her choice, and who was so 
early lost to her, remained indelibly stamped within her 
young heart. Her beauty, moreover, in some degree 
returned. But it was not now the warm, inviting 
beauty of the rose, freshly opening in a garden of 
flowers; it was rather the calm and peerless loveliness, 
but still cold and forbidding, of the pale moon moving 
in the far-off blue sky. 


PHYSICIANS JOURNAL. 145 

Nor was it merely true that Elizabeth still appeared 
wan and grief-worn. Her continued and deep depres- 
sion and sorrow had seriously affected her health. These 
terrible throes and agonies of the broken spirit are not 
experiences to be put off as lightly as one lays aside a 
soiled garment, leaving the person — the powers of liv- 
ing and the physical economy — entire and intact. On 
the contrary, they are immense drains upon the vital 
energies; and as surely as they consume, and in time, 
if not corrected, destroy the mind’s natural vivacity 
and playfulness of movement, so surely also do they 
undermine and exhaust the bodily powers, and ulti- 
mately induce the inroads of serious disease. Scarcely 
a year had passed, when it began to become apparent 

to the widowed Mrs. S herself that she was losing 

her bodily strength. She found her digestion badly im- 
paired, and could not but note that she was now and 
then the subject of a nervous agitation and of unac- 
countable terrors from slight causes, for the results of 
which she at times felt alarm. With her serious indi- 
gestion, her teeth, that were once remarkably fine, began 
to decay; and presently, the suffering she endured com- 
pelled her to allow of the extraction of four of her upper 
front teeth. In the place of these she had as many 
false ones inserted in the manner usual in such cases, 
upon a partial gold plate, fixed by clasps to adjacent 
teeth on either side. Not without some trace still of 
womanly vanity, Elizabeth freely expressed her regrets 
at the substitution of these make-believes for the sound 
and pearly teeth she had once possessed. She should 
have found some consolation, however, in the kindly 
jest of her pastor, who, admitting that her false teeth 

7 


146 


LEAVES FROM A 


were to be deplored, added that the case was still not 
so bad, “for plainly there was nothing about her that 
was false, except her teeth 1” 

Meanwhile, Elizabeth’s former companions had not 
forgotten her, nor was she wholly secluded from their 
society. Somewhat more than a year after her hus- 
band’s death, there were again those who ventured to 
address her as suitors — some of them by letter, others 
in person. But she felt that her heart was in the grave 
of her first love, and she shuddered at the thought of 
another’s sharing his treasure. Her parents urged her 
to marry a second time. They thought that new scenes, 
new cares, and varying duties, might win her from her 
deep melancholy, and save her from its consequences. 
Urged, entreated, almost compelled, she at last con- 
sented ; though she frankly told the man who was her 
parents’ choice that her heart was still another’s. 

William P well knew Elizabeth’s worth. Ever 

since his first acquaintance with her had he loved her; 
and it was to him a sad day when he knew she was an- 
other’s wife. While so many others were sympathizing 
in the happiness of her nuptials, he had retired in sad- 
ness; for he felt that the idol of his heart was lost to 
him forever. 

Yet the meanness of envy did not rankle in William 

P ’s heart, to pervert his instincts and his reason 

together, and to turn the nobleness of a man into the 
cowardliness of a traducer, a traitor, or — more awful in 
its consequences, but not more base nor more criminal 
in itself — of an assassin ! There have been beings in 
human form, who, because the woman for whom they 
felt what their sordid souls called love, has dared to be- 


physician’s journal. 


147 


stow her affection or her hand on another, have madly 
rushed to the use of the pistol or the knife, and have 
plunged her they had professed to adore, or the man of 
her choice, or both, into eternity; or with more grovel- 
ling spite and cunning, they have surrounded the path- 
way of innocent human lives with slanders and with 
snares, to blacken and destroy a happiness to which 
they were not themselves fitted to aspire. But the mon- 
strous perversion of human feeling that turns to sickly 
green and yellow all it contemplates, has no place in 
any generous and truly manly soul : certainly it had 

none in that of William P . The gifts of another 

were not to him a perpetual sting; nor did the happi- 
ness of another poison his existence. And so, in spite 
of the pain of his own feelings, he sincerely rejoiced 
that Elizabeth was happy; and he was even among 
the first to congratulate his friend on his good fortune 
in having won — in Hymen’s lottery — a prize so val- 
uable. 

But now that, in the mysterious ways of Providence, 

James S had been removed, William was led to 

hope that the way might be open for his own addresses. 
On this hope he acted. He early made proposals of 
marriage and was accepted, and the day for the nuptials 
was appointed. On the evening preceding the ceremony 
Elizabeth was with her parents in the parlor : William 
was by her side. Friends also had come in to express 
their felicitations. To enliven the scene, music was in- 
troduced — many ladies who were present consenting in 
turn to perform on the piano and sing. But Elizabeth 
passed most of the evening in deep thought, ever and 
anon wiping the silent tear which no art could keep 


148 


LEAVES FROM A 


back, and which no present happiness could dry at its 
fountain. 

The next evening she stood once more at Hymen’s al- 
tar, and was joined in wedlock to William P , a man 

whom to know would be to respect and admire. He was 
tall, noble, handsome-looking, well-formed, w T ith a high 
forehead, dark hair and beard, and full, sparkling black 
eyes. In his disposition he was mild and affectionate, 
kind and obliging ; and all united in pronouncing the 
newly-married pair both fine-looking and well-mated. 

They at once removed to their own home, which 
William had already neatly furnished for his new bride ; 
and many were the friends that flocked around to offer 
congratulations and good wishes upon the occasion. 
The domestic duties of the young wife’s new home, and 
the love of a kind husband, now occupied her mind ; the 
deep affliction of the long months preceding, in a meas- 
ure, passed away, and Elizabeth even became once more 
happy. But, alas ! her happiness was destined once 
more to be brief. Who, save the All-seeing One, can 
tell what a day may bring forth ? 

Elizabeth’s health had, as we have already seen, be- 
come seriously impaired. Her enfeebled constitution 
had become, in a measure, unfitted to bear those trials 
which life had in reserve for her. One year passed, and 
now Elizabeth was at once a mother and a shattered in- 
valid, struggling in the embrace of death ! Convul- 
sions had set in, and the young mother was scarcely al- 
lowed to feel the pleasure and pride that nature offers 
to her in the consciousness of maternity ; for she was 
now physically a wreck, tossed hither and thither on a 
stormy and threatening tide. 


physician’s journal. 149 

Convulsion followed convulsion, until at length, after 
one of these more than usually severe, she seemed sud- 
denly oppressed with some new feeling, and to come to 
herself like one awaking out of a dream. 

“Oh, where am I ?— and what is this ?” she ex- 
claimed, and at the same time she pressed her throat 
with her hand. “ Oh ! I am choking— here F and she 
still pressed her throat. Then, in a moment, she cried : 
“ Mother, mother ! where are you ?” 

“Here, my child,” said her mother, who was with her. 

“ But I cannot see you, though I know your voice. 
Oh, what is this ?” she gasped, clutching again at her 
throat. “ Mother, Pm dying F and while her face grew 
black, and she half strangled, she appeared passing into 
insensibility. 

“ No, dearest, I hope not 1” said the mother, who, 
though anxious for her daughter’s life, thought this new 
distress only a part of her spasms. Still, she quickly 
administered a draught of a liquid medicine that was at 
hand, and next a few morsels of food ; and now the im- 
mediate sensation of choking ceased. But Elizabeth 
still felt a strange oppression and fulness in her throat, 
though now its place was a little lower down. Sud- 
denly a thought flashed across her mind, and she cried 
out — 

“ Mother, I have swallowed my false teeth in my con- 
vulsive fit !” 

“My child,” the mother answered, “ that cannot be !” 

Search was, however, forthwith made for the missing 
teeth — search everywhere, and by all in the house — but 
in vain ; and the terrible truth became evident — it must 
be that Elizabeth’s surmise was but too well founded. 


150 


LEAVES FROM A 


At this stage in the case I was consulted. The phy- 
sicians in regular attendance had from the first main- 
tained, that although it was a fact that the false teeth 
had been for some time loose in the mouth, and that the 
clasps needed repairing, still, for the sick woman to 
have swallowed them, plate and all, was simply an im- 
possibility. They, doubtless, felt that Elizabeth’s asser- 
tion, to the effect that the teeth were in her mouth before 
the convulsions came on, was a delusion on her part. 
At all events, they made no examination to determine 
whether there were a foreign body in the throat, but 
continued the usual modes of treatment. 

When, however, I had come to. a knowledge of all the 
facts in the case, including the patient’s positive state- 
ment that the teeth were in their place before the last 
of the convulsive attacks, and were altogether missing 
after it, and that she still experienced some difficulty in 
swallowing, though the uneasiness now appeared to be 
at a point lower down in the throat, I gave it as my de- 
cided opinion, in opposition to that of her regular medi- 
cal attendants, that Elizabeth must in reality have swal- 
lowed her teeth ; that it was this body that had nearly 
strangled her at the moment ; that by giving the liquids 
and food already mentioned, it had been at once moved 
down so low as no longer to keep up the spasm of the 
muscles of the throat, which must otherwise have caused 
suffocation ; and that they were now low down in the 
oesophagus (food-pipe), and probably near to the cardiac 
orifice of the stomach (the opening, that is, from the 
oesophagus into the stomach). 

I felt, accordingly, that one of two results in the case 
was inevitable, and that speedily. Either Elizabeth 


physician’s journal. 


151 


must be relieved by a surgical operation, if that were 
possible, or else death must soon be the issue. Eminent 
surgeons at a distance were now consulted, but they de- 
cided the patient’s case hopeless ; surgery could not 
reach to the present seat of the difficulty short of itself 
causing death. 

When the announcement of this conclusion was made 
to the invalid, she clasped her hands and exclaimed — 

u My God ! must I die ?” and then, looking up to 
heaven, she continued, “ Father, thy will be done 1 I 
feel myself prepared, and there is life in that word.” 

It was not long before irritation about the place of 
the foreign body in the oesophagus became very great, 
and the introduction of food into the stomach well-nigh 
impossible. Steadily and rapidly Elizabeth was going 
down into the waters of death. Gently her shattered 
bark glided along the shores of life, on towards the 
broad ocean of eternity. Sweetly at last she murmured 
her dying notes — begun on earth, but to be finished on 
high. When she and all others felt that her end was 
very near, she faintly whispered to those about her — 

“I am going to Jesus — to the home of the glorified ! 
Farewell, dear mother ! — dear father ! — you will soon 
follow me. Weep not for me, and when you lay me in 
the grave, beside my James, think of me- only as passed 
on a step in advance, and beckoning you onward. Oh, 
the rapture I shall soon know !” Then, turning to her 
mother, she said, “My babe I give to you. Name him 
after my dear husband — his father — and bring him up 
to think of me as one that waits for him in heaven ! 
Father,” she said, “ will you read for me the fifty-first 
Psalm, and pray with me ?” 


152 


LEAVES FROM A 


The now aged patriarch took from its stand the family 
Bible, ^nd, with eyes suffused with tears and an over- 
flowing heart, read that beautiful psalm ; then all bowed 
in prayer, while he presented his dying daughter to the 
throne of grace. With what feelings that chapter was 
read and that prayer presented must be imagined, for 
my pen cannot attempt the description. 

Elizabeth’s husband now approached her, his face 
bathed in tears. 

“ William,” she said, “ one deep regret only have I for 
you : it is, that for all your love, care, gentleness, and 
kindness I have made you so poor a retnrn. But my 
days are now ended — my race is run — and I sink into 
the quiet of the tomb. Think of your wife, William, 
once so weak and sinful, but soon to be glorified, as one 
who will look down from above upon you, and one who 
— if that shall be permitted to her — will visit you, and 
whisper in your ears words of peace, of joy, of heaven ! 
Farewell, faithful, loving husband 1” 

But it was the last energies of her wasting life that 
were ebbing, to give utterance to these beautiful senti- 
ments and mementoes of affection. Her voice had grown 
weaker, and articulation now almost ceased. She lay 
with closed eyes, and with her hands folded across a 
breast in which reigned only a calm joy and peace ; and 
waiting thus, her weary spirit soon, and almost without 
a sign, took its leave, passing gently to its long-desired 
haven. 

When the day for the funeral came, Elizabeth’s re- 
mains were carried to the same church in which her 
baptism and her marriage twice had been solemnized : 
and this was, for her, the fourth and last of the great 


physician’s journal. 


153 


occasions of life into which the services of religion were 
to enter. On the first, carried thither in her mother’s 
arms ; on the second, led by the hand of her accepted 
lover ; on the third, a widow who had consented to 
throw aside her weeds, conducted by the hand of her 
father, — she was, on the fourth, borne upon the shoul- 
ders of those who, in years long past, had been her 
youthful companions — a silent form, dressed in snowy 
white for the tomb ! After the solemn ceremonies— 

In the cold, moist earth we laid her. 

When the forest cast the leaf ; 

And we wept that a life so beautiful 
Should be so sad and brief! 

Rest thee, weary one 1 calm in the lap of earth. Thy 
warfare is over ; thy sorrow is ended. Brief was thy 
day, and thy pathway had many sharp thorns. But 
thou hast gained the haven, hast entered the port, and 
art now safely gathered in the arms of thy God. 

Sleep ! — sweetly sleep ! near thy village home — close 
by that house of God whither thy weekly step was bent 
for religious instruction and divine praise, and in the 
midst of the slowly ingathering company of thy child- 
hood’s and womanhood’s companions ! Who shall befit- 
tingly garland thy sepulchral couch, and prune and foster 
the roses that bloom above thy head ? Truly, thou art 
gone ; but thou art not forgotten. For — 

" To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die!” 


7 * 


154 


LEAVES FROM A 


A STRANGE CASE OF CONSCIENCE. 


“ Be sure your sin will find you out.” — Bible. 

f EVERAL years since, the writer was returning 
home late one afternoon from an exhausting 
day’s labor, when he was accosted by a familiar 
friend, and requested to go with him to see a 
sick man, who was represented as in a state of decline , 
and for whom, though he had two very respectable and 
well-known physicians, nothing had apparently been 
done that had proved beneficial. 

Reluctant to enter upon “ other men’s labors” when 
not invited in consultation, or by the patient or his 
friends, I demurred about going j but being persistently 
urged, I consented to go and see the man, with the un- 
derstanding that it should only be a friendly or non- 
professional visit. 

The dwelling of the sick man was an almost palatial 
mansion, with every thing, internal as well as exter- 
nal, on a scale of grandeur and magnificence scarcely 
equalled in either of the sister cities of Brooklyn or 
New York. 

A magnificent flower-garden, tastefully laid out, sur- 
rounded the house, wherein were the rarest flowers and 
plants. A gravelled walk led up to the door, on either 


physician’s journal. 


155 


side of which were bas-reliefs of lions surmounted with 
Cupids, topped with stone vases containing almost every 
variety of flowers. The frescoed ceilings of the hall and 
parlors were of exquisitely delicate taste and finish. 
Satin paper, with gold-tinted flowers, covered the walls, 
and the carpeting, window-curtains, and furniture, dis- 
played the wealth of the owner in costly magnificence. 

I thought of the remark of Addison in reference to 
Lord Rochester, when about to die — 

“ These, my lord,” said the pious Addison, when view- 
ing the splendors surrounding the nobleman, “ are the 
things which make dying hard.” 

0 death, thou leveller ! how dost thou, with one fell 
sweep, lay in the dust the rich and the poor, the high 
and the low, the grave and the gay, the good and the 
bad ! — all feel thy shaft, thy destroying” hand ; nor love, 
nor tears, nor entreaties, stay thy remorseless hand. 

“ Pallida mors oequo pulsat pede pauperum taberna 
regumque turres,”* sang Rome’s satirist nearly two thou- 
sand years since ; and a higher authority has said — 
“ Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” 

The lady of the house to whom I had been introduced 
by my friend, and who with him had been to see the sick 
man, now entered the parlor, and announced the fact of 
his desire to see me, and also that his family physician 
w T as present and would be glad to have me see the 
patient. Accordingly I was introduced to the sick man, 
and at the earnest request of his physician I examined 
the invalid as thoroughly as I was able. With the pre- 


* Pale death, with equal step, knocks at the turrets of the rich 
and the cottages of the poor. 


156 


LEAVES FROM A 


vious impression that his lungs were diseased, I made 
them a specialty in my investigation, and became satis- 
fied they were perfectly sound, and that, so far as I was 
able to judge, the sick man had no special functional or 
local disease; but that whatever his complaint was, it 
had reference to some general cause which I could not 
then make out. There was a slight cough, a debilitated 
frame, increased arterial circulation, with considerable 
nervous prostration, and some headache; and this was 
all I could discover. His great complaint was want of 
sleep, poor appetite, bad dreams, nervous twitchings, 
and wandering thoughts, and a constant sighing, which 
seemed to escape him involuntarily. 

When I had concluded my examination, his physician 
beckoned me into an adjoining chamber, and inquired 
what I thought of the case. 

“ He has no proper consumption,” I replied. 

“ So I think,” said he. 

“And as to any functional or organic disease,” I con- 
tinued, “ I cannot discover any signs of it.” 

“What then is the matter with him, in your judg- 
ment ?” he inquired eagerly. 

“ I am not well enough acquainted with his previous 
habits — mental, moral, or physical — to venture an ex- 
act opinion, based on such knowledge as is requisite; 
and I hardly dare express a mere vague thought which 
presents itself to my mind.” 

“What is thy thought then, as Othello puts it to 
Iago ?” said he ; “ we are all alone here, doctor, and all 
is professionally sacred with us, and as the case, I con- 
fess, has puzzled me exceedingly, as also the other 
doctor, your bare thought may unravel, by accident, the 


physician’s journal. 157 

secret of the difficulty, and lead to a restoration of his 
health.” 

“ Are his finances in a healthy state ?” I inquired. 

“Perfectly. I inquired of his wife all about them, 
with a view to the same point you are hinting at, I sup- 
pose.” 

“ No family disappointments, or domestic jars, or 
troubles ?” 

“ None whatever ! He has no children, and all his re- 
lations, as I have been informed, are well to do in the 
world.” 

“ Has his spiritual state been in any question with 
him ?” 

“ That I know nothing about ; for neither to us 
nor to any one else, so far as I know, has he ex- 
pressed any uneasiness about it. He is now, and has 
been for some time, a very reputable member of the 
Episcopal or Methodist Church, I really do not know 
which, but one of them I am sure ; and to all churches 
and benevolent objects I am told he has always been 
exceedingly liberal.” 

“ Then my thought is at fault, and I must leave the 
case just as I found it, in the dark and in your hands. 
So we must part and go each to his business, for all 
men have business, such as it is.” 

We returned to the sick man’s chamber, and all but 
his wife prepared to leave. 

As we got down stairs the wife touched my arm, and 

drew me aside, with the remark, “ Mr. desires to 

see you alone at your earliest convenience.” 

I promised to see him next morning at ten o’clock, on 
my route to some patients in his neighborhood, whom I 
6 * 


158 


LEAVES FROM A 


was then visiting. With this we parted with the lady 
and the patient. 

Slowly walking together some distance in deep 
silence, I was about parting with my friend, the doctor, 
when he archly looked into my face, and said — 

“ If honor does not require it kept a secret, I should 
like to know what the lady said to you just now ?” 

<1 Simply this : the sick man wants to see me alone, 
and I have made an appointment to see him to-morrow 
at ten o’clock; and if honor does not prevent it, you shall 
know what the nature and result of the visit are, as fully 
and as promptly as I now tell you what the lady said. 
Of one thing rest assured — I shall not prescribe for him 
without your full knowledge and consent.” 

“Thank you, thank you, doctor ; I expected as much 
from you, and although we differ in many of our ideas 
medically, I hope we shall never, either of us, depart 
from strict professional etiquette.” 

Next morning, punctually at the hour, I was by his 
bedside, where a number of friends were surrounding 
him, with his wife. He seemed unusually restless, toss- 
ing from side to side on his bed, and indisposed to con- 
verse, though friends were anxious to engage him in 
conversation. He seemed less cordial to me than on my 
first visit, and I began to repent of making the engage- 
ment. After sitting a short time I arose to depart, ex- 
cusing myself, as I had much business before me for the 
day. He motioned me to stay, and whispered to his 
wife. She led the persons surrounding him down stairs, 
and left us alone. 

A long silence ensued, broken at last by his asking me 
if I “knew the Rev. Mr. P , a Methodist clergyman.” 


physician’s journal. 159 

I replied in the affirmative, stating I knew him well, 
and had known him for years. 

“ You belong to the same church ?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Where is he now ?” 

I informed him. 

A long pause ensued. 

“ You know him, then, do you ?” I asked. 

“ Yes ; and I wish I had never seen or known him !” 

“ Indeed 1 I hope he has done nothing to impair your 
confidence in him as a Christian minister, or in his re- 
ligion.” 

“ Oh, no, no, not at all 1 the difficulty lies with me, 
not with him, I assure you.” 

I was silent, fearing to advance any further than he 
invited me forward. 

“Is he poor or rich?” he asked; “or don’t you 
know ?” 

“Ministers generally are not very rich — especially 
Methodist ministers.” 

“ That is true, very true, sir ; but I should like to 
know his circumstances, for a reason.” 

“ I could find out, if you wished it. Do you wish me 
to ascertain the fact ?” 

“Yes — no — not just now. I may want to know here- 
after, and if you could find out without letting him or 
any one but ourselves know, I would be obliged to you, 
and pay you well for your trouble and expense.” 

“ You shall certainly know all about it, if I can ascer- 
tain it.” 

“ How much,” said he, “ is the amount, at compound in- 
terest, of one hundred and fifty dollars for eleven years ?” 


160 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Three hundred dollars.’’ 

“ Just so,” he replied ; “and that is what I owe Mr. 

P .” 

“ Indeed ! Then you have had dealings with him ?” 

“ I defrauded him of that sum eleven years ago, and 
now I wish you to see it is paid him, with compound in- 
terest ; and if he is in need of more he shall have it, 
fourfold, as the Bible requires.” 

“ You wish me to pay it to him, then ?” 

“ I do.” 

“ And to let him know who it comes from ?” 

“ Stop, stop ! he don’t know me, and — and — well — is 
it necessary he should know ? does a just restitution re- 
quire he should know who defrauded him of his money ?” 

“That depends on circumstances.” 

“ What circumstances ? Pray explain.” 

“ Your own conscience and the justice of the thing.” 

“ The circumstances are these : he gave a boy the 
money to pay a note in the bank. I met the boy, whom 
I knew, and while the boy retired a moment into the 
back office, where he was employed, I abstracted the 
money by unsealing the letter and resealing it. I was 
alone in the front office. The boy took the letter to the 
bank ; but the money was gone, and suspicion falling 
on him, he was dismissed in disgrace. They did not 
suspect me. That was eleven years ago. My excuse 
was my pressing necessities. Strange as it may seem, 
I think that money laid the foundation of my present 
fortune.” 

“ But where is the boy ?” 

“ I have sought him everywhere since, but in vain. 
He was a poor boy, and his mother a widow. I have 


physician’s journal. 


161 


been on the point of confessing the fraud a thousand 
times since, but my guilty soul started back in fear. 
No longer able to endure the gnawings of conscience, I 
accidental!}' thought of you, and requested my wife to 
bring you to me. She did so. You know now the rea- 
son, and my purpose in the matter.” 

“ Your purpose, then, is to restore the original sum 
and its compound interest ? But do you wish your name 
known in the matter ?” 

“Not unless you think it necessary and right, in order 
to make full restitution.” 

“ You must be the judge of that ; just as you feel : 
our consciences generally dictate right in such matters ; 
for in matters of this kind the justice and sense of right 
come up first, while in mere prudential affairs our 
second or third reflections are safest.” 

“ I am not clear in my own mind ; I shall leave it to 
you altogether, so do as you think best.” 

“ But the boy, what of him ? Restitution should be 
made to him even more than in the case of the other. 
The man only lost his money, the boy his character ; and 
who knows what he and his widowed mother have suf- 
fered in consequence of what befell him ?” 

The sick man heaved a deep sigh, drew his hand over 
his face, and wept bitterly. 

“ Now then,” said I, breaking the silence, “ I will 

write to Mr. P , and inform him, in a blind kind of 

way, of the money due him, and inquire how he wishes 
it paid him, and let the future develop whether any name 
shall be revealed. And I think you ought to advertise 
for the boy, now a young man, and, if living, make suit- 
able reparation to him.” 


162 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ I shall leave it all in your hands, if you will only 
take the trouble.” 

“ That I shall do willingly.” 

With this we parted. As I was about to leave him 
he beckoned me near him, and whispered in my ear, 
“ Let no mortal know a word of all this until it is all 
accomplished, and I am dead and buried.” 

I promised him, and departed. 

As I hurried along in my gig, a thousand and one 
serious reflections jostled each other in my brain. I 
thought of the tangled web of human life, with its light 
and shadow ; of the power of conscience, how dead or 
dormant it may be for years — choked down, trod on, 
laughed at, scorned, and overridden — yet it will rise and 
assert its power, and thunder at the guilty, “ Thou art the 
man;” and of the fact that wealth without ease of mind 
brings no peace of soul. 

I wrote to the Rev. Mr. P- , and the following an- 

swer came from his widowed wife : 

“ Doctor , 

“ Sir : Yours of the 10th instant has just come 
to hand, and I am extremely obliged for the interest you 
have ever taken in our affairs. I remember the cir- 
cumstance of the one hundred and fifty dollars referred 
to in your kind letter. Many a tear I shed over its loss, 
for we were all deprived of many little necessary com- 
forts, and for a long time, in order to make up our loss. 
AY e all suspected little Eddie, the errand-boy ; but, years 
before my husband’s death, he and others acquitted him 
of all dishonesty, though we blamed him for carelessness. 

“ But see how God turns all things to His praise and 


PHYSICIAN'S JOURNAL. 163 

to our advantage. Three hundred dollars to me and my 
children now are worth more than a thousand would be 
if my poor dear husband were living. He is now dead 
but one short month, and located last conference. We 
bought a little place in the town of our last appointment, 
and your kind favor will help us wonderfully. May 
God’s blessing and the prayers of a widow ever rest 
upon your head. 

" Yours in Christ, Elizabeth P . 

“ P. S. — You may send the money direct to me in this 
place, and I will send you a receipt for it. 

“ E. P.” 

I showed this letter to Mr. A . He seemed over- 

whelmed with grief, mortification, and joy. 

I also put the following advertisement in two of the 
New York daily papers : 

“ Notice. — The little errand-boy, Eddie, eleven years 
since in the employ of Mr. Simpson & Co., bankers and 
insurance agents, and from whom one hundred and fifty 
dollars were stolen out of a letter, will hear of something 
to his advantage by writing a note to Box No. — , Brook- 
lyn Post-office, informing the writer where he may be 
found.” 

But Eddie was never found, although the advertise- 
ment was in the papers for an entire week. 

THE SEQUEL. 

Mr. A recovered rapidly, and was induced, in ad- 

dition to the three hundred dollars, to donate an equal 


164 


LEAVES FROM A 


amount to the poor widow, and he to-day, for aught the 
writer knows, enjoys his health and ample fortune; nor, 
as far as he knows, does any mortal know any thing 
of these transactions save our two selves and the All- 
knowing One above. 



physician’s journal. 


165 


THE BURGLAR’S LAST LEAP. 



T two o’clock in the morning of a day in Feb- 
ruary, 18 — , a violent ringing of my office-bell 
suddenly aroused me; and when I threw up 
my window to learn the cause, I saw the form 
of a female standing alone at my door, and shivering 
in the intense cold of that bitter wintry night. 

“ Who is there ?” I asked, “ and what do you de- 
sire ?” 


“ Can you go with me, sir, to see a dying man ?” a 
trembling voice replied. > 

“ If the man is dying, I can be of no service.” 

“But, for God’s sake, come, sir !” was the anxious reply; 
“ may be you can do some good, even now. Will you 
come, sir ? or shall I look elsewhere ?” 

Hurrying on my clothing — I had been in bed but two 
hours — I opened the door. 

“ Come in, madam, if you please,” I said. “ Who is 
so ill as to require a woman to brave the elements, all 
alone, on so cruel a night as this ?” 

“ My husband, sir I” she replied ; “ he is at 46 

street. But please come with me: I will show you the 
way.” 

I muffled up my head and face, and we emerged from 
the house. The snow, driven through the air, and 


166 


LEAVES FROM A 


heaped up at intervals in our path by a furious wind, 
greatly impeded our progress; while at other points the 
bare and glassy sidewalks hindered quite as much by 
rendering it difficult to keep our footing. 

My guide led me onward a number of blocks, then 
turned, and finally crossed and recrossed from street to 
street, until I felt inclined to exclaim in the words which 
poor Hamlet, shivering with affright, addressed to the 
ghost — “ Whither wilt thou lead me ? speak ! Pll go 
no further.” To my repeated inquiries whether we were 
yet nearly at our place of destination, the almost inva- 
riable reply of my anxious and heavy-hearted cicerone 
was, “But a little further on, sir; we shall soon be 
there.” 

We had now entered upon one of those narrow, dark, 
gloomy streets, which, by its locality as well as its ap- 
pearance, I knew to be the abode of the low and vile — 
of the burglars, thieves, and other lawless classes that 
infest all large cities. 

Stopping at last before a dingy and rickety wooden 
building in one of the darkest parts of this street, she 
said — 

“ This is the house.” 

As I remembered where I was, I could not repress an 
involuntary shudder that came over me. She under- 
stood my feelings in a moment, and assuring me of the 
most perfect safety, begged me to proceed. 

“But where,” I demanded, “ is the sick man?” 

She had opened the door, and pointing along the hall 
or passage, said — 

“Just in here, sir — back in that room.” 

I reflected a moment only: I was already so far along 


physician’s journal. 167 

in the adventure, that I felt a determination to see the 
end of it. 

We passed together along the low, dark entry, grop- 
ing our way in the darkness ; then turned to the right, 
ascended a narrow and rickety flight of stairs, found 
our way along another dark passage, which led still on 
towards the back of the long irregular building ; then 
went down two pairs of break-neck stairs : entering 
near the foot of the last of these, and at one side, 
through what might be described as a sort of trap-door, 
I found myself ushered into a narrow, disorderly, and 
dimly-lighted apartment, within which the objects that 
first and most naturally arrested my attention were the 
forms of two stout, dark-visaged , and fterce-looking men. 

Of these, one sat on a low stool ; the other, close to 
the small stove through a crack in which the fire shone, 
lay stretched on a pallet of straw. The slight, but 
ruddy gleam of the fire through the opening in the 
stove, aided by the sickly rays of the miserable apology 
for a candle that stood on a little stand in one corner of 
the room, alone served to light up this wretched apart- 
ment and its contents ; and the effect was by no means 
to improve or give an encouraging aspect to the actual 
scene that presented itself. 

Again the involuntary shudder came over me, and 
this time, I confess, with greater force, in proportion as, 
too obviously, it occurred from more substantial reasons. 
Dark suspicions shot through my mind. Had I been 
made the dupe of some infernal plot ? Did I stand here, 
in this trap, so remote from all help, the victim of some 
scheme to extort money ? These and many kindred sug- 
gestions flitted in quick succession through my brain. 


165 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Please sit down, sir,” said the woman who had come 
with me. 

“Where is the sick man ?” I inquired, not heeding 
her request. 

She set a broken chair by the side of the man 
stretched on the straw, and repeated her solicitation 
that I would be seated. 

I scrutinized a moment longer the appearances about 
me, and then sat down. 

“ I am the sick man,” said the one at whose side I 
was placed, and in a coarse voice that pain had evi- 
dently rendered somewhat less rough and a good deal 
more submissive than its wont — “I, sir. My leg is 
broken. Won’t you examine it ?” and then, observing 
my hesitancy and agitation, and doubtless divining their 
cause, he added, in a tone of assurance : “ Never fear, 
sir ! nothing will harm you here. It is not your kind of 
folks we meddle with ; at any rate, when we want your 
services. We have been trying to tinker this up our- 
selves, but don’t quite understand it ; and so we 
thought we would send for you.” And so he rambled 
on : “We thought you would splice it up — and keep a 
secret, too. I suppose you don’t forget the poisoning 

case in street, last summer ? It was I that paid 

you, and I begged you not to let it get into the papers. 
The officers came just after you left, but of course I was 
mum about who you were, or where you lived. I knew 
you well, though, if you did not know me. But, Doctor, 
get to work, now, and do your best for me ; it’s an 
awful suffering I’m in. These two butchers here, with , 
their tinkering, have only made things worse.” 

And so I found it. Quickly removing some awkward 


physician’s journal. 


169 


attempts at splints and bandages that had been com- 
pressed about the swollen limb in such a way as greatly 
to increase the pain, without keeping or even bringing 
rightly together the ends of the broken bone, I examined 
the limb. I found that the thigh-bone (the femur) was 
not only broken off, but also splintered ; that is, more or 
less split lengthwise. I took an old cigar-box at hand, 
the best thing that offered itself, and from it proceeded 
to cut out the needful splints, the wife, meanwhile, 
preparing by my direction the cotton and bandages. 
We stretched the patient on the floor, and straightened 
the broken limb ; and I proceeded to put the fractured 
parts in position, and then applied the splinters and 
bandages as well as the circumstances would allow. 

“ Not very scientifically done, sir,” I said to the pa- 
tient, when we had replaced him on his couch ; “ if I 
could have known earlier just what I had to do, I might 
have served you better.” 

In fact, the limb had swollen to double its natural 
size, rendering the pain most intense, and the surgeon’s 
work proportionally more difficult. I had endeavored 
to persuade the strange, half-wild community into which 
I had so unexpectedly fallen, to allow me time first to 
reduce the swelling before attempting the setting of the. 
limb, but no arguments could prevail on them to vrait : 
the limb was to be set, as broken limbs generally were — 
so much they could understand ; but all reasoning about 
any thing to be gained by delay was utterly lost on 
them. 

I was now preparing to go. 

“ Doctor, you will have a glass of good medicine V> 
inquiringly interposed the sufferer. It was one way, at 
8 


170 


LEAVES FROM A 


once, of showing that even he had a code of politeness, 
and also of manifesting his gratitude. “ Bring out the 
decanter, wife, and the glasses.” 

“ I thank you,” was my reply ; “ but I never drink 
except when thirsty, and then only of fluids which cannot 
intoxicate. But I would request that your wife should 
pilot me ; for I am sure that otherwise I should never 
find my way out.” 

“ Nor the way in, either !” said the comrade, who had . 
now resumed his place on the stool. 

“ Ha ! ha !” laughed the sick man, for the topic evi- 
dently animated him. “ We call this our muster-room ; 
it opens for knowing ones, but it is sealed against all 
outsiders. Good-by, Doctor ; mum’s the word. She” — 
pointing to the woman — “ will show you out.” 

My guide knew her business, and was ready. She 
withdrew a bolt, opening the trap-door by which we 
had entered, and was about going out before me, when 
— whack ! crash ! went two stout clubs against the 
door to prevent its being shut. There was a clatter of 
feet, and a rush into the opening, and, before any move 
could be made within to hinder, four stout police offi- 
cers stood before us in the room, which was none too 
large before ; and, what was the least agreeable feature 
in the case, each had, ready cocked, in one hand a pis- 
tol, and each having, in the twinkling of an eye, singled 
out his man, or woman, as the case might be, these four 
pistols were pointing directly at us four insiders, among 
whom, but a moment before, such a feeling of security 
— for I could hardly say satisfaction — had prevailed ! 

Quick as thought, however, the uninjured comrade 
had drawn a pistol ; so had the wife ; and even the dis- 


physician’s journal. 


171 


abled man had his pistol out from under his pillow : all 
save myself seemed arrayed for battle, and on the eve 
of it too, or rather of a sort of extemporized and multi- 
plied duel, which, at the short distances of the combat- 
ants, promised to make sure work and bloody. 

This was altogether more than I had bargained for — 
a suddenly improvised entertainment not down in the 
programme, at least as I had understood it, and, I am 
sure, quite as great a surprise to my new patrons. For 
myself, moreover, as I stood at first midway between the 
aggressive and a part of the defensive forces, my posi- 
tion was sufficiently uncomfortable. One comes to un- 
derstand the situation of affairs with wonderful quick- 
ness on occasions like these, and my presence of mind 
was but a moment wanting. 

“ Gentlemen,” said I, “ don’t shoot an innocent man — 
a physician — and here on an errand of mercy, as these 
parties will testify.” 

“ Stand out of the way,” said an officer. 

“ But where ?” 

“ By the doof there ; but don’t leave yet.” 

“ Madam,” said the spokesman of the officers, “ this 
is no place for you : your game we know, but we are not 
here to arrest you.” 

“ But you will not arrest him ?” said the woman in an 
inquiring tone, as she looked with a sympathetic eye on 
the disabled man. 

“ He is just the man we want — no one else ; and him 
we will have,” was the reply. 

During this colloquy I had withdrawn to what ap- 
peared the safest part of the room, and meanwhile two 
of the officers had, almost in an unaccountable manner, 


172 


LEAVES FROM A 


slipped behind the man on the stool. In an instant after 
they struck his pistol from his hand, then seized him, 
threw him to the floor, and pinioned his arms and limbs. 
The other two had their eyes and weapons directed upon 
the patient and his wife. 

“ Now,” said the officer to the latter, “ deliver your 
pistol.” 

Whether accidentally or otherwise I could not tell, 
but at the moment she dropped her pistol : it went off, 
and the ball, whizzing past me, lodged in the plastering 
of the wall. 

“ Oho !” thought I, when sure I was unharmed, “ not 
Molly Stark this time, but Mrs. S., came near being a 
widow.” 

The woman, disarmed, was now also handcuffed. 

“ Now, sir,” said the officer at this juncture to the only 
remaining belligerent — the cripple lying on the pallet — 
“ there’s no use in your playing bravo any longer. The 
game is up, and you had better put up your war-dog and 
come along.” 

“ Come along !” repeated the sick man in surprise, 
“ why, I couldn’t walk a step if you gave me all the 
world. My leg is broke ; the doctor has just set it : see 
here, examine for yourselves.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! — we thought we had winged you, my boy,” 
retorted one of the minions of the law, and, I could not 
help feeling, in a tone and manner which even the cir- 
cumstances of the case did not call for. 

“ Winged ? — who ?” exclaimed the sick man, showing 
still more surprise. 

“ Come, come, old boy, no more of that. You are 
mightily ignorant all at once.” 


physician's journal. 173 

“ But what is your errand here ?” asked the man with 
the broken limb. 

“ Indeed I indeed !” the officer replied with an ironical 
tone, “ how suddenly you have lost your senses ! You 
don’t remember last night, I suppose — the jewelry store 

in street, and all that sort of thing ? You made a 

bold stroke, and aimed your war-dog well ; but you 
know two can play at that game, especially if they have 
this sort of stuff about them” — and he held up to view 
his six-shooter. “ You made a bold run too,” he went on, 
“ but that leap of yours was a little too steep, I guess, 
for you seem rather the worse for it ; or, perhaps, one of 
these little fellows has made you come to. So, no more 
words about matters. Come along — come along !” 

Here I interposed, and stated to the officer the man’s 
condition. 

“ His leg really broke, then ?” 

“ Most assuredly.” 

“ Then we must cart him, and them there too, I sup- 
pose — ride like nabobs. Doctor, we don’t need you 

here any longer. Won’t you call at Station , and 

tell any one of our men to come down ? But stop : Jack, 
go up and attend to the matter yourself : may be the 
Doctor wouldn’t like to do it.” 

On our way back, the officer thus delegated to go for 
aid informed me that my unexpected patient was a most 
desperate character ; that he had been engaged in the 
most daring burglaries, but had hitherto avoided detec- 
tion with the greatest adroitness. “ We have been,” 
said he, “ on track of him for three months, and, though 
often appearing to be close on him, we could not really 
get on his trail until a day or so since. He has been 


174 


LEAVES FROM A 


around that jewelry store for a week, waiting, watching 
his opportunity. And, now that we have him, there are 
other crimes that he must answer for. He leaped out of 
a second-story back-window — one of us fired at him — 
but whether the leap or the shot had crippled him, or 
whether both had failed, we didn’t know till just now. 
After his leap we searched for him, but he could not be 
found ; and now I suppose his comrades were quick 
enough to carry him off. But, while beginning his in- 
fernal work, he shot the watchman of the store, who 
now lies at the point of death. If he dies, the fellow 
will swing, sure as fate. — But how did we detect him 
at last ?” my companion continued ; and that was a point 
on which I was interested to be informed. “ This was 
the way : — One of our men who happened to be nearer 
than that old woman imagined when she called you up 
at such an hour, thought there was something unusual 
in her manner, and in her coming alone for you at that 
time of night. You and she were thinking of your busi- 
ness only, and looked before you, not behind. A shadow 
followed you all the way ; and it was not difficult, espe- 
cially after you turned into the narrow dark street that 
house is in, to keep pretty close to you. The shadow 
followed you at a cautious, but sure distance, through 
the long passage and down those stairs. After you 
went in he put his ear to the door ; you were all inter- 
ested, and a little excited, in there, and you talked too 
loud. Our fellow was not long in putting this and that 
together ; and divining that he had found the burglar’s 
den, and that a warm reception might be anticipated, 
he hurried out, got us four together, armed, and we 
posted ourselves at the door, as you must know by this 


physician’s journal. 


175 


time. We felt pretty sure you would not take lodgings 
there overnight ; and you see we judged correctly on 
that score !” And my companion chuckled with a good 
deal of satisfaction, while, as I may safely assure the 
reader, I had become considerably enlightened. Pretty 
soon the official left me, to go in his own direction, and 
I walked home, musing. 

Two months later, the morning paper informed me that 
my patient, his wife, and comrade, were arraigned — the 
first as principal in various burglaries, the other two as 
accomplices. On the morning of the opening of the 
trial an aged couple called on me, requesting my at- 
tendance on their son — the burglar. That afternoon I 
called at their dwelling, and there, one on each side of 
the burglar’s couch, I found the old couple, broken under 
an overpowering grief and desolation of heart. 

“ Doctor,” said the criminal, as he recognized me, “ it 
is a dreadful thing to bring down the heads of one’s 
parents with sorrow to the grave. I am their only son. 
In my country home I might have been happy and use- 
ful — the staff and comfort of these my aged parents. 
But no ! that would not do for me : I must see life — city 
life — all the allurements and excitement of the metrop- 
olis. And here I am now, a wretched, fallen man — ut- 
terly ruined for both worlds ! The watchman is dead : 
I shall be tried for murder as well as burglary.” 

It was heart-rending to see the haggard appearance 
of those stricken parents, in whose abandonment to 
grief nature triumphed over mortification and shame 
Afterwards, during the burglar’s trial, they sat by his 
side, never leaving him for a moment ; and when he was 
sentenced to imprisonment for life, their audible weeping 




176 


LEAVES FROM A 


in the court-room excited the sympathies of all hearts — 
moving many even to tears. 

Though it was very evidently the culprit, and not a 
policeman by accident, who had shot the watchman — 
for the defence endeavored to make the latter appear 
the fact — yet there remained a trifling uncertainty in 
the proof ; and it was this shadow of doubt which saved 
the prisoner from sentence of hanging. 

But the burglar had taken his last leap — into a blank 
life of solitary confinement, and into eternal infamy ! 



physician’s journal. 


177 


A CASE OF CATALEPSY. 

CONSULTATION. 



fD what is “catalepsy?” asks the non-profes- 
sional reader. Answer : it is a species of “ fit.” 

But there are hysterical fits, epileptic fits, apo- 
plectic fits, and still others of these forms of 
what the medical author might term cases of “ sudden 
seizure,” in all too numerous to he here described — and 
not to speak in this connection of tailor s’ fits, which, 
though perhaps less alarming, are sometimes quite 
troublesome. 

I shall present to the reader an account of a striking 
case of cataleptic fit which came under my own observa- 
tion ; and from the recital given of symptoms and inci- 
dents, he will be enabled to get*a fair understanding of 
at least one of the forms in which catalepsy may appear. 
The opportunity of observing this complaint is, by the 
way, very rare : it is enjoyed by very few even among 
medical men, however long their lives or extensive their 
practice. It happened to me to witness one case — a 
providence, perhaps, I should consider it. 

As the case was one of consultation, I will, by way 
of preliminary, introduce to the reader four medical gen- 
tlemen who figured in it. Let the reader, then, call his 
8 * 


178 


LEAVES FROM A 


imagination into play, and therewith discern before him 
the four persons to be in order briefly characterized : — 
the first, an old hero of the healing art (perhaps I might 
be justified in saying, a veritable ivar-horse among iEs- 
culapians), a gentleman somewhat advanced in years, 
and marked by his gray, flowing hair, gold eye-glass, 
heavy overcoat, throughout lined with fur, with bright, 
piercing blue eyes, and hooked nose, and withal of 
somewhat brusque manners ; the second, a heavily-built 
man, of about forty, distinguished by fiery red hair, a 
nose thick, short, and slightly inclined upward, with 
small hazel eyes and a ruddy countenance — one who 
wore a white vest, though in the month of December, 
and sported in professional style a gold-headed cane ; 
and who further made known his presence by utter- 
ances in what might be termed a highly “ curled” Irish 
brogue ; the third, a rather young man, tall and slim, 
dressed in a black suit of the latest style, and which 
was completed interiorly with boots polished to the 
point of serving as a pair of mirrors for his elegant form 
and attire to contemplate themselves in, but who him- 
self possessed, withal, highly intellectual features ; the 
fourth — well, no matter ! at least an “ M. D.,” however 
the honor might have been obtained ; for whether that 
came by hard toil in his studies, or by due payment of a 
sum of hard cash, it does not here very much concern us 
to know. 

Please allow, gentle reader, some further stretch of 
the imagination : the drama will presently open ; and 
thenceforth the play of facts may in good degree relieve 
the strain of the inventive faculty. 

You are asked, then, to picture before your mind’s 


physician’s journal. 179 

eye a young lady; and though, now-a-days, this term 
will include all feminine humans who have once passed 
some “ baker’s dozen” of years, and who have not yet 
got entirely beyond “a certain age ,” that mysterious 
period in the career of womanhood which may extend 
variously from twenty-five on to well beyond forty 
years, yet you are requested further to note that the 
young lady who is now briefly to occupy our attention, 
is apparently at about the age of nineteen. Moreover, 
you are to discern that this lady, though fully dressed for 
an evening party, is yet — in such dress — lying motionless, 
and seemingly lifeless, upon a bed ; that she is, to all 
appearance, a dead person — so dead (or so near it) that 
she neither sees, hears, feels, tastes, nor smells, nor, as 
already said, moves in any manner. The distracted 
parents of the girl are, as well as the medical gentle- 
men we have been picturing to ourselves, also in the 
same room with the apparent corpse. The former are 
weeping, believing that their daughter is dead, and of 
heart-disease, or, as in instances of sudden dissolution 
it is sometimes s£tid, “ by the visitation of God.” 

Friends, too, there are in that saddened room, young 
and old, from near and far, and many of them weeping 
over the supposed untimely death of their late associate, 
while all at times watch with sad and curious counte- 
nances the movements of the doctors present, and study 
the expression of their faces. A lover, also, is there : 
he who, but a little while since, awaited in an adjoining 
room the young lady’s appearance, in order to hand her 
into the carriage that should convey both to the con- 
templated evening’s scene of festivity and amusement. 
Brothers and sisters, too, weep around the bed, or, as in 


i 


180 LEAVES FROM A 

case of the younger ones, half wonder what all this noise 
and crying — this Babel of strangers lamenting and 
“ doctors disagreeing” — can mean. 

But, presently, the doctors have taken one step for- 
ward. They order that the room in which the young 
lady lies shall be for the time cleared of mourners and 
of curiosity-seekers. Next, some superfluities of dress 
are removed from the person. Then the work of ex- 
amination, consultation, learned discussion, and grave 
medical decision begins in earnest. 

All in turn examine the seemingly dead person ; and 
presently very singular discoveries are made. One of 
the physicians happens to raise the lady’s arm to a per- 
pendicular position, and there to release his hold ; and 
lo ! the arm retains its place upright, until it is laid 
hold of and brought down again, by the hand. Then 
the body is so raised that the waist is made to project 
upward, forming an obtuse angle, and the only support 
being received at the head and feet : it preserves this 
position immovably, and without other support, for fif- 
teen minutes. Then, the patient is placed on the floor, 
in an erect posture, and she stands there, unsupported, 
and appearing like a clothed marble statue ! Both 
arms are then extended, and one foot being brought 
nearly to a horizontal position, so long as some slight 
support is given to the limb, the' body maintains even 
this singular attitude. 

During all this time, the eyes are wide open ; yet 
there is no movement of the pupils or of the eyelids. 
There is no breathing that is perceptible to ordinary 
modes of detection. There is no pulse discoverable at 
the wrist; though it appears that a feeble, uncertain 


physician’s journal. 


181 


pulsation can bo detected at the heart. As to color, 
the whole person is pale as a ghost (people always de- 
scribe ghosts as pale, and for ourselves, having never 
seen one of them, we must fain accept the usual descrip- 
tion). The body, though it is readily moved in any 
manner upon the application of force from without, even 
as if it were apt and flexible as that of a scientific 
gymnast, continues, whenever not so manipulated, as 
rigid as a statue, preserving, so far as its gravity 
allows, whatever attitude or position may be given 
to it. 

It will be seen that there was here presented a strange 
combination of conditions : life, but held in suspense ; 
mobility of limbs and body, but purely passive and me- 
chanical, and with total loss of the power of self-motion ; 
the possession, it would even seem, of all the senses, 
but not the least evidence that the possessor exercises 
any one of them ! 

The gentleman with the red head and white vest was 
the first to form, or at least, to express, an opinion. 

“ She’s in a trance,” he said : “ I have, in my Edin- 
burgh and Dublin practice, seen many such.” 

“ But she does not sing, speak, nor in any way give 
the least evidence of the trance state, as, if I understand 
the account of that state given in our books and by the 
best authors, she should do,” the man of the overcoat 
and hooked nose objected. 

“ The fact is, she’s mixed, sir,” he of the white waist- 
coat responded, at the same time betraying his perplexity 
by biting at the massive gold head of his cane. 

“ Mixed! 1 ' reiterated the hooked-nosed man, in a tone 
that smacked of contempt for such an opinion ; “ where 


182 


LEAVES FROM A 


is tliat term found in the books ? Give us your author, 
sir ! Authority is the test with me” 

“ Experience is the test of authority with me” mum- 
bled out white-waistcoat, rallying to his own defence, 
and from behind the head of his cane, which still barri- 
caded his mouth. “When I say mixed, sir, I mean, 
mixed with Hysteria, vulgarly known as ‘ hysterics.’ 
She is not what would be called an ecstatic. I have 
seen such — the Irvingites — when a youth at college, in 
Scotland ; people who spoke in unknown tongues, some 
of them with their eyes closed, others with them wide 
open. And then, there are the Italian improvisatori , 
who speak and write in tire trance or ecstatic state. 
But, it is plain, this is neither an Italian nor an Ir- 
vingite.” 

“But the trance state is analogous to the ecstatic 
state,” said Number Three, the man of the immaculate 
boots and unmentionables. 

“Aye, aye I” interposed the white-vested gentleman, 
“there’s just where the mixing begins ! All females, 
but especially in this country, where excitements are so 
numerous, are very liable to hysteria : that you must 
admit in the outset. Well ! this young woman, I’ll bet 
a thousand guineas, has been subject to that malady; 
and so, now, as she was about to go out with her in- 
tended, the excitement of the affair has carried her off 
into the trance state. And this makes my argument 
good, you see.” 

“ Still,” rejoined the gentleman in the black suit, “ the 
trance state and the ecstatic state do not suspend the 
exercise of the mental powers ; it is only the ability to 
receive and naturally to respond to the external impres- 


PHYSICIANS JOUKNAL. 


183 


sions that, in those states, is for the time destroyed, or 
held in abeyance.” 

“ That’s a question of fact,” replied white-waistcoat : 
“ I’ll not give up my opinion, until I learn in what 
state the young lady was, mentally, at the moment of 
her seizure by the fit.” 

“ Let us call in her dressing-maid,” said the fourth 
gentleman. The maid was at once summoned, and 
made her appearance. She was a young, timid, flaxen- 
haired German girl, and who, when she found herself 
confronted by four grave doctors, in presence also of a 
dead body — as she looked upon her young mistress to 
be — began to give unmistakable signs of being likely 
to add to the receipts of the evening by the amount of 
a further consultation fee — so hysterically did she sob 
and cry ! 

“ Hush, now, my fine gur-r-1 !” said the Edinburgh 
student, pulling down his white vest, which had an un- 
comfortable way of climbing up towards his throat, and 
leaning over at the same time to the object of his en- 
treaties, till he quite doubled himself up ; “ hush, now, 
and tell us how all this happened.” 

But the “fine gur-r-1” could not be appeased for a 
long time ; though, after much sobbing, alternated with 
loud wailings, and seasoned with sundry outbursts into 
genuine crying fits, she at last became so far calmed 
down, under the soothing and patronizing treatment 
of the red-faced gentleman inside the white waist- 
coat, that the latter — the gentleman, not the waist- 
coat — at length ventured upon his intended questioning 
process. 

“ And what was the young lady doing, my good 


184: 


LEAVES FROM A 


gur-r-1,” he asked, “ or saying, when she fell into this 
condition ?” 

“ She was a — a — a — oh ! mine Gott, mine Gott ! she’s 
dide,” the hysterical girl again went off, as the thought 
of her mistress’s occupation at the sad moment led her 
to turn round and look upon the pale face lying there, 
and so renewed in her mind the terrible assurance that 
her mistress actually lay in the embrace of death. And 
then she began screaming again, as if her young heart 
would break. 

“ Here , here ! come, now ! stop this nonsense,” 
cried white-waistcoat, at length growing impatient, 
and shaking the girl rather roughly ; “ tell us what 
she was doing or saying when this fit came on 
her.” 

“ She vas a buttinin’ on dem things,” the girl now 
made out to begin ; “ vat you call dem in English ? — I 
forgets vat you calls dem. I’m German girl — can’t 
speak English much.” 

“Well ! what things do you mean, my gur-r-1 ?” 

“ Dem things as goes round the neck, for de ladies — 
de, a — de,” and she looked all about the room, as if to 
find the object she had in mind, or something like it ; 
when, unfortunately, her eye again lighted upon the 
prostrate form of her mistress, and she roared out hid- 
eously, “ Oh ! mine Gott, mine Gott ! vat shals I do ? 
vat shals I do ?” 

“ You mean a fur cape, or collar ?” said her inter- 
rogator. 

“ Cap ! — no !” and bewildered young Germany shook 
her head, and then added, “ Collar t vat you calls 
dat?” 


physician’s journal. 


185 


“ This,” said her questioner, holding up a large vic- 
torine, which he took up from the toilet-table near. 

The girl still shook her head. 

“ What was she doing, then ? teel me that? shouted 
her tormenter, whose patience had now quite given 
way. 

“ Vat she vas doo-in’ ?” the girl repeated, inquiringly. 

“ Yes, yes ! teel me that : what was she doing ?” 

“ Vel, she was tressin’ himself !” 

“ Zounds ! What word or words did she speak to 
you, just before she took the fit?” asked the doctor, 
shifting his ground from the young lady’s occupation to 
her speech. 

“ She say to me,” answered the girl, “ 1 Quick ! bring 
me mine loaf-ve P — and den, oh ! mine Gott ! she say 
noting more ; but she go dead — she dide rite avay.” 

“ Bring her what ?” shouted her questioner. 

“ Her loaf-ve ,” said the girl, emphasizing the word. 

“ And, in the name of common sense, what did she 
want of a loaf going out to a party ?” 

11 No, no, no !” the girl in her turn now screamed out, 
“ not loaf of brade , vat you eats, but her loaf-ve , vat she 
has on de — vat you call him in English ?” and she tapped 
her bosom as she spoke, to explain herself. 

“ Oh ! ah ! — yes, yes ! — now I understand it. Ha , ha, 
ha ! I’ve got it at last,” said the exultant doctor, his face 
a shade redder than usual, and approvingly rubbing his 
nose with his gold-headed cane — “ she means her lover ; 
ha, ha, ha /” and he tapped his breast in turn, imitating 
the girl. 11 You see, she called for her lover when the 
fit was coming on : very natural, very natural, in a 
young gur-r-1 about to be married, or engaged to be — 


186 


LEAVES FROM A 


ha, ha, ha! Now, gentlemen, am I right or wrong ?” 
asked the triumphant M. D., putting his white vest down 
once more, and thrusting his cane into his mouth further 
than ever. 

“ Did you mean to say,” asked the gentleman in black, 
“ that your young mistress told you to call in her 
lover — the young man — her beau, to her bedchamber ?” 

“Do you means, vat she merries ?” the girl inquired, 
as if an idea had suddenly penetrated her mind. 

“ Yes,” replied the young man who was finished off 
below with the two looking-glasses. 

“ No, no, no, sur ! dat ish nit it ; she vants dis ;” and, 
to make herself understood, the girl began to twist up 
and turn into all sorts of shapes the ribands which hung 
down her back from her hair, and into which they had 
been tied. 

“ I tell you, gentlemen,” the man in the white waist- 
coat said, “ it’s her beau she wanted ; and it proves my 
theory. Don’t you see, the gur-r-1 went to make up a 
riband bow, to represent the idea of her own beau — her 
lover ?” But this was said with some diminution of con- 
fidence, and in a somewhat more slow and subdued man- 
ner. It was evident the gentleman felt he must maintain 
his theory ; and so he made this assertion on the prin- 
ciple of the olden mode of warfare, namely, that when 
the soldier was overcome, he should continue firing, and 
retreat at the same time. 

It had become plain by this time that no real or ser- 
viceable information could be worried out of the head of 
the German girl, at least through the medium of her 
halting English. She was dismissed accordingly, and 
to the no small gratification of the poor victim of pro- 


physician’s journal. 


187 


fessional tortures it was ; for so soon as she understood 
that she was released from the grip of her inquisitors, 
she darted like a frightened cat out of the room, and, 
with all the velocity of which she was capable, disap- 
peared down the stairs. 

“ We must try the pupils of her eyes,” now said the 
man in black, “ and determine by their contraction if 
she’s really alive. We must, by all means, apply severe 
frictions, so as to relieve our uncertainty, and restore 
her, if possible, to consciousness.” 

This was agreed to by all. One went for a lighted 
candle to hold near the eyes ; another fixed her head so 
as to apply the light ; and the hooked-nose man and the 
white-vested man pulled off their coats, preparing to 
commence the process of severe friction. 

Some little time elapsed before the needful prepara- 
tions were completed. In the mean time, the fourth gen- 
tleman — the family physician — who had been observing 
the girl, and also the preparations going on, noticed that 
a large fly or wasp, he scarcely knew which at first, 
after buzzing a few moments near the body, alighted cn 
the girl’s hand. Drawing closer, and so as not to dis- 
turb the insect — though why he scarcely knew at the 
moment — he discovered that the insect was a young 
wasp, and that it was actually stinging the hand on 
which it was. 

About this time the family — who had been kept out 
during the consultation, and who had been waiting upon 
the physicians, as the latter darted from room to room 
for the light and the various conveniences to be used in 
the frictions — began to enter the chamber. One by one 
they came up beside me with tearful eyes, and asking 


188 


LEAVES FROM A 


various questions about the girl ; as, whether or not we 
still hoped we could restore her, and whether we thought 
her really dead. The light was brought, and the gentle- 
men who had assumed the task of the frictions were now 
prepared for their work. 

At this juncture out bawled our chief speaker — he of 
the white vest — “ I still maintain my theory that she fell 
into this fit — for she’s ’most dead, thank God 1” he said 
parenthetically, turning to and addressing the parents 
and friends with a patronizing bow at the same time — 
“ that she fell into this fit, I say, while in the act of 
calling for her lover, or beau, as you term the article 
in this free country ; and that, when she awakes, she’ll 
finish the sentence which she broke off when she took 
the fit.” 

“ Call John immediately,” said the girl’s father. 

“ And,” added the persistent theorist, “ let him stand 
right over her. Then, when she awakes, she’ll recognize 
him the first one, and complete the sentence she had be- 
gun when animation was suspended !” 

“ Dear me !” said the young man, when, having en- 
tered the room drying his eyes with his handkerchief, he 
took his place beside his affianced, “ there is a hateful 
wasp that has bitten her hand : see how it swells. And 
there’s a spot of blood ! Is it blood ? Yes, it is, surely,” 
and he wiped off the little drop of blood that stood where 
the sting had punctured the hand. 

“ And the pupils dilate finely !” broke in the young 
man in black, holding the light near the girl’s eyes. 

“ But her hands— come, let me see !” said the theorist, 
as he worked away vigorously. 

“ The little wasp, gentlemen,” said the fourth medical 


physician’s journal. 


189 


attendant, “ is as good a physician as any of us ; for he 
has demonstrated the existence of life, since no blood 
can flow, in the way you saw it there, from a dead per- 
son. So, there is no fear but there is still life, and very 
little fear but she’ll live.” 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed the father, the tears trickling 
still down his aged face. 

“ Rest assured of that fact /” said the theorist, rub- 
bing away, the perspiration rolling down his ruddy face, 
and falling upon and soiling his white vest. “ By all 
the powers above !” he presently added, as he observed 
signs of returning consciousness, “ she’s coming to 
and rolling up his shirt-sleeves, he went at his work 
with renewed hope and energy. “ There ! there !” he 
cried, as she gave a deep groan, and made a considera- 
ble movement of her limbs, “ she’ll soon be here, safe 
and sound. And now for my theory: come closer, young 
gentleman !” said he. The lover bent over her. 

The girl’s eyelids now moved, as in winking ; then 
she moved her hands, and then her limbs. Lo ! then 
she began to move her eyes ; and it became evident to 
all that she was coming to her proper consciousness. 
All were now awaiting her first word. She looked 
around slowly, and the word “ not,” or “ knot,” it ap- 
peared, fell in a feeble tone from her lips. 

The theorist looked at the girl, then at each one of 
the medical men, in amazement. 

“ Not !” said he, shaking his head, as if somewhat in 
doubt about the relation of that word to beaux , or lovers. 

“ What ? — knot ? or not?” said he, stooping down close 
to the girl’s ear, and striving to draw from her the mean- 
ing of the word, or some clue to it. 


190 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Is it the marriage knot you’re speaking of, my dear ?” 
he said, in a soothing and coaxing tone. 

u Catherine ! please bring me my love-knot !” now said 
the recovering girl, feebly. All at once perceived that 
she was referring to an article belonging to the dress 
in which, at the time of her seizure, she had been array- 
ing herself. 

“ Oh ! it’s the love-knot — the riband bow that I gave 
her yesterday !” said the young man ; “ that is what she 
wants.” 

“ Now where’s your theory ?” whispered the young 
man in black, in the ears of the theorist. 

“ Hush ! hush ! man,” replied the latter ; “ she’s a 
clever gur-r-1, don’t you see ? And she’s coming to, 
thank God ! But it was about love, and a beau, after 
all, and in spite of all your carping and catches.” 

The young lady now rapidly returned to full con- 
sciousness. She was overwhelmed with endearments ; 
and congratulations, exchanged on all sides, took the 
place of tears and sorrows. The company — the “ as- 
sembled wisdom” of the profession included — gradually 
broke up, taking their several ways homeward. 

The case was plainly one of catalepsy, but the attack 
was of brief duration. It is, in some instances, pro- 
longed for many hours or days. 

When the subject has been since brought up before 
her, the lady has often laughed heartily at the idea that 
it was only her lover’s powerful presence which brought 
her out of her unconscious state. She had afterwards 
two imperfect relapses into the cataleptic state, which 
has also been known as “ day-mare but in these latter 
she did not lose her consciousness. 


physician’s journal. 


191 


Since her marriage the cataleptic fits have not re- 
turned. The white-vested physician, however, has de- 
clared that she never sees him but that she falls into a 
violent fit — of scolding and lampooning him I — for his 
notion that her lover could be of any service to her 
when in the cataleptic state ! 



192 


LEAVES FROM A 


MY SECOND CASE OF POISONING. 



►THER ! when I die will you bury me in 
Greenwood, by the side of my little Edwin ?” 
said a daughter who had just entered the room 
in which her mother was sitting, and had care- 
lessly thrown herself upon a sofa. 

This strange and startling language, coming from 
one on whom the warm affections of a mother’s heart 
were really placed, brought that mother instantly to her 
feet. Astonished and horrified, she asked — 

“Why do you speak of that, Julia? what do you 
mean ?” 

“ Just what I said, mother I” she replied, and then 
repeated the strange request. 

It was but a few minutes before this that J ulia, who 
was apparently in her usual health, had entered her 
mother’s dwelling. Her appearance was that of a 
beautiful girl, but one on whose features had been 
traced all too soon the marks of deep sorrow and care. 
Her age was but eighteen ; her complexion, as the 
pale cheeks still showed, was naturally fair ; and her 
light-blue eyes were yet keen and penetrating. As she 
reclined on the sofa, her face, that wore an expression 
of unwonted placidness, seemed like a sad, sweet pic- 


physician’s journal. 


193 


ture, whose rich setting was the auburn hair falling 
in graceful natural ringlets over her snow-white neck. 

It was now about six years since, at a tender age, 
Julia had lost her father. He had been seized, as I was 
afterwards informed, with an inflammation of the lungs 
which assumed a typhoid character and rapid course ; 
and in ten days he passed away. A sail-maker by 
trade, he was virtuous and temperate, honest and in- 
dustrious. He loved his home and his family, and as 
his health permitted, earned for the latter a good liveli- 
hood. During his last illness, while he was rapidly 
wasting under the withering hand of disease, J ulia was 
his faithful nurse : she was constantly by his bedside, 
fanning his fevered brow, administering to his parched 
lips the cooling draught, or preparing those little luxu- 
ries that to the suffering prove so grateful, and that 
none but they know fully how to appreciate. Julia’s 
father loved her, not only because she was his first-born, 
but because her qualities of heart were such as rendered 
her lovely to him ; and dying, he implored that blessings 
might follow her. 

Julia’s mother, though she was one in whom a large 
portion of the world’s casual or fashion-formed obser- 
vers would find little to condemn or amend, was a per- 
son different in many respects from her husband. She 
was now, at about forty years of age, tall and slender, 
wanting in symmetry of form and grace of manner, and, 
in truth, not prepossessing. She was not, and had never 
been, what the world calls beautiful ; and yet there was 
something in the softness and almost melodiousness of 
her voice, and in the animation of her bright black eyes, 
that, like the charm of the fabulous siren, seemed to 
9 


194 


LEAVES FROM A 


fascinate and to allure to her a large circle of friends. 
She loved fashionable dress, as the milliners of Brook- 
lyn could abundantly testify, for they found in her a 
profitable patron ; and she was too often to be found 
before her glass, attempting by the use of vermilion and 
“ lily white” to improve the pencillings of nature. She 
was one of those who love to have a neat and tidy 
house, and who have a peculiar horror of dirt or dust, 
but who are exceedingly careful not to injure them- 
selves by personal attention to the former, nor by em- 
ploying their own hands in banishing the latter. So 
nervous that she could go into hysterics over a stray 
mouse that might chance to run across her room, yet 
she was inclined to take the world easy; and, in a man- 
ner, she might be said to enjoy life. In her thought- 
lessness, she was willing to marry almost any man for 
the prospect of a home. In a word, she seemed fitted 
rather for the companionship of the hour, than for 
meeting properly the vicissitudes and trials of mortal 
destiny. 

Three years after the death of her first husband, and 
when Julia was just entering on her fifteenth year, she 
married again, and this time a widower with three 

young children. Mr. D , after an acquaintance and 

courtship of only three months, sought and obtained her 

hand. Julia’s mother was Mr. D ’s third wife. His 

first wife, however, had sickened and died only seven 
months after their marriage. 

If many mischances may befall to prevent the happi- 
ness of those who marry with youth, a first affection, 
and something of the pliability of early years on their 
side, surely the chances of congeniality and harmony in 


ntYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 


195 


a union of those who are already in somewhat advanced 
life, perhaps one or both of them parents, and with their 
habits and modes of thinking become confirmed and un- 
yielding, must be doubly uncertain. 

Julia’s new father was of medium stature — his age, 
forty-six years. He was a wiry, hard-visaged man, 
with sandy hair and beard, and whose temperament 
would be described as the bilious. He was quite illiter- 
ate, not having had the benefit of even an ordinary 
English education ; and besides being the possessor of 
a most violent, uncontrollable temper, he was, even 
when not particularly excited to anger, still crabbed, 
sour, and morose. 

From the day of that unhappy union Julia’s happiness, 
and even that of her mother, was at an end ; for he 
who was ready enough in promising at Hymen’s altar 
to love, cherish, and protect, too soon violated his sacred 
pledge, abusing both Julia and his wife beyond measure. 
He appeared, indeed, to have not a spark of affection for 
his wife. Of course, she could retain little or none for 
him ; and, to use her own confession, she had “jumped 
out of the frying-pan into the fire !” 

When will men and women learn the sacredness of 
the institution of marriage, and foresee that all unions 
not based on a pure affection — on “ love unalterable and 
true” — can but be a continued scene of disappointed 
hopes, and end ultimately in wretchedness and misery ? 
Let all, young and old, beware how they allow them- 
selves to be wrecked on the rocks and shoals of an un- 
congenial and unpropitious marriage ! 

Without further entering into particulars, let it suffice 
to say that the situation in which Julia and her mother 


196 


LEAVES FROM A 


now found themselves was disagreeable and painful 
beyond description. For all their unhappiness Julia’s 
mother was, in truth, alone to blame ; for, in order to be 
relieved of certain cares, perhaps of loneliness, and to 
secure a home, she had violated that law of marriage 
which is written on the heart and in our common nature : 
now, alas ! she was paying the terrible forfeit. If Mr. 

D was wanting in love for his wife, Julia he hated. 

All manner of vile epithets, and even the most obscene 
names his unchaste imagination could invent, were 
belched forth from his almost fiendish lips upon this 
young and innocent girl ; until, at the age of sixteen, 
and a year after this terrible advent, she sought to bet- 
ter her situation and find relief from this uncalled-for 
abuse, in venturing to give herself in marriage to one 
who was to her comparatively a stranger. Unhappily 
for Julia, her husband proved to be a confirmed profli- 
gate. Although she had been more than an eye-witness 
for a long twelvemonth of her mother’s sad experience, 
yet she had failed to turn it rightly to her own instruc- 
tion and profit. 

Still, scarcely could any thing fail of being better for 
Julia than her so-called home. With her husband she 

removed to street. Six months only from the time 

of their marriage he deserted her ; and from that time 
onward Julia had never either seen or heard of him. 

Thus was Julia thrown on the too cold charities of 
the world ; and, to add to the distress of her situation, 
though at the same time with the promise of giving to 
her one at least on whom she could centre the long un- 
satisfied affection of her woman’s heart, in four months 
after the time of her cruel desertion she became a mother. 


physician’s journal. 


197 


To her little Edwin she became most ardently attached ; 
but at the age of only a year he sickened and died. 
“ Eddie” was buried in the public grounds in Greenwood 
under a weeping-willow ; though even for this kindness 
the young mother was indebted to the charity of the 
wife of a Presbyterian clergyman, who had become par- 
tially acquainted with her history. 

Julia was now alone in the world. Her little Edwin, 
on whom she had placed her heart’s warmest affections, 
and for whom alone she cared to live, had been by an 
all-wise Providence taken from her ; and now she wended 
her way again to that “terrible home,” her mother’s 
house. Her father (did he deserve the name ?) com- 
menced anew his abusive course towards her, and epi- 
thets were heaped upon this innocent and helpless girl, 
the repetition of which would cause the most shameless 
to blush. Then and there he made the vow that she 
should that night leave his house, and forever. Her 
mother reasoned with him and plead for her daughter, 
but to no avail. True to his w T ord, that very night he 
turned this inoffensive and lovely girl into the streets 
of the great, wicked city. She wandered to and fro, up 
one street and down another, not knowing whither to 
go. Late in the night she entered Station-house No. — , 
and there she was kindly provided with lodgings. Care- 
worn and fatigued, she threw herself upon the rude 
couch. The place and the circumstances did not invite 
to the contented reflections or quiet formalities with 
which, in some comfortable home, the maiden prepares 
for the unalloyed blessings of sweet repose. Julia flung 
herself down without even a thought of removing her 
dress ; but exhaustion of mind and body came to her 


198 


LEAVES FROM A 


relief, and soon she sank under the spell of Morpheus, 
and entered, as too commonly do those who are too weary 
for perfect rest, into the land of dreams. 

In her wanderings she visited the spirit-world, and 
there, among the angel band, she beheld her cherub boy, 
wearing a crown of glory and bearing the palm of vic- 
tory in his hand, and heard him chant the sweet song 
of redeeming love — “ Unto Him who hath loved us, and 
washed us from our sins in His blood, to Him be glory, 
and honor, and dominion forever !” 

She awoke, and recalling that vivid dream, oh, how 
she sighed for the repose of the grave ! How she 
longed to be with her angel-boy in that bright world, 
where 

“ Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, 

Are felt and feared no more.” 

Then for two long hours she lay awake, reflecting 
upon her sad condition. As she contrasted her utter 
wretchedness with the peace, the joy, the happiness that 
belonged, as her visions had revealed him, to her angel- 
boy, the grim monster, Despair, assumed complete con- 
trol of her mind, and then and there she deliberately de- 
termined to put an end to her unhappy existence. 
Nothing had she left her now but the clothes she wore, 
and in her purse one paltry shilling. With the latter 
she resolved to purchase the fatal drug that was to send 
her body to the grave and her soul to eternity. Alas ! 
the vision of the bliss of the disembodied had not taught 
her the faith, the hope, and the patience under suffering, 
by which she too might win that exalted condition at 
the last : it had rather aroused the spirit of murmuring 


physician's journal. 


199 


and complaint ; and because earth was too unlike 
heaven, she rushed to the fatal resolution to sacrifice, 
for the prospect of present forgetfulness, all that earth 
or heaven might ever hereafter be to her. 

She arose, quitted the strange walls that for the first 
time had afforded to her their hospitality, and repairing 
to a neighboring druggist’s, she procured the deadly 
poison. With the vial in her pocket, she turned her 
steps towards her mother’s home. Secretly watching 
until she saw her father go out, she entered the house. 
She obtained a tumbler, and proceeding to the backdoor, 
emptied into it the fatal contents of the bottle, and 
quaffed off the potion as deliberately as Socrates did the 
hemlock. 

It was then that Julia first entered the room in which 
her mother was sitting*, and that, throwing herself upon 
the sofa, she uttered the language found at the com- 
mencement of our sketch. 

* * * * * * 

“ Doctor, Doctor ! will you come up and see Miss 
Julia ? She is very bad,” exclaimed a coarse-looking 
girl recently from the Emerald Isle, as, on a cold Decem- 
ber day, she rushed into my office. 

“Who is Miss Julia? and where does she reside?” I 
asked. 

“ Och, Doctor, and it’s meself that’ll be after showing 
yez, if yez only will come along.” 

“ How far is it to where she lives ?” 

“ But a wee bit of a ways, savin’ your presence.” 

“ Leave her name and residence, and I will be there 
in one hour. 

“ And is it an hour ye said, Doctor ? Och, bad luck to 


200 


LEAVES FROM A 


yez, but she’ll die dead before an hour ! And shure, 
Doctor, and wasn’t I after tellin’ yez that Miss Julia’s 
been takin’ pison ?” 

As my informant uttered the last sentence, I took my 
hat and followed her with all possible speed. We were 
soon at Julia’s residence. It was a large house of some- 
what antiquated style, and situated not far from my 
office. We entered and were conducted to the front 
basement, where Julia was lying on the sofa. 

Her mother, frantic with fear, was pacing the floor of 
the room in which Julia was lying ; and as she wrung 
her hands and stamped her feet on the floor, her haggard 
look and her sobs, that seemed to come from the very 
heart, told of the deep feeling within. She would fre- 
quently exclaim — 

“ 0 my daughter ! why did you do it ? My Julia ! 
my dear girl ! why, oh, why did you do it ? Doctor, 
will you save Julia ? Do, do, Doctor, save Julia ! Save 
her — she’s my daughter !” 

During this exciting scene Julia lay upon the sofa, 
calm and unconcerned, so far as appearances would 
show, as a new-born babe. I sat down by her side, and 
by the odor of her breath, as well as by the peculiar and 
half-stupid look that was deepening on her countenance, 
I soon ascertained that she had been taking laudanum. 
Quick as thought, I prepared from my pocket medicine- 
case an emetic. While I was thus employed, Julia 
asked — 

“ What are you doing, Doctor?” 

“ I am mixing some medicine for you, Julia,” I replied 
calmly. 

“ Your labor will be in vain,” said she, “ for I will take 


physician’s journal. 


201 


none of it. You may think strange of me,” she continued, 
after a moment’s pause, “ but I am not beside myself. I 
am as rational this hour as ever I was in my life. I have 
thought this matter over calmly, and have deliberately 
taken this poison to end my misery. I fully appreciate 
my condition : but God will forgive me. Death is pref- 
erable to the terrible scenes I have been forced to pass 
through, and in this place that I have had to call my 
home. For me life has lost its charms. I do not fear to 
die, for my present sufferings are more than this poor 
body can endure. I am willing,” she resumed, as her 
thoughts appeared to revert again to her unhappy expe- 
rience, “ to work — to earn my own living — to do any 
thing that is reasonable. But that brutish man will not 
even allow me to remain in his house. Last night he 
turned me out, alone and friendless, into the street ! I 
must have some place to sleep, and to take my meals : 
I cannot live in the streets. But it is all over now ; yes, 
all over, and forever ! Only bury me in Greenwood, 
mother, by the side of little Edwin ; it is all that I 
desire.” 

The medicine was already prepared, but I allowed her 
a few minutes to finish what she had to say. When 
she had concluded, and I attempted to administer the 
potion, she refused it with a resoluteness that defied all 
persuasion. 

It was now at the least twenty minutes since the 
poison had been taken ; its absorption was rapidly go- 
ing on, and as the stupefying impression on the brain 
was already manifested by the slowness and effort with 
which the patient uttered the last sentences we have 
recorded, there was evidently no time to be lost. Find- 

9 * 


202 


LEAVES FROM A 


ing that she still refused the dose, we were forced to tie 
her hands behind her : the servant girl and her mother 
held her feet, I with one hand held her nose, and the 
poor victim herself held her breath, until she could do so 
no longer, or ' became satisfied that further resistance 
was useless. Then she yielded, opened her mouth, and 
swallowed the potion. She soon vomited, the ejected 
matters having strongly the odor of the drug. 

Meanwhile, the vial which had contained the fatal 
fluid was found, where Julia had thrown it as she was 
preparing to swallow its deadly contents, on the grass- 
plot in the yard. Thelabelread — “LAUDANUM. Poison. 

From ’s drug store, corner of Avenue and 

street.” I repaired hastily to the druggist whose place 
was thus indicated, to ascertain if possible the amount 
of the poison that she had taken. He remembered 
filling the vial about an hour previously for a young 
lady : the vial held two ounces. A minute more, and I 
was again by the side of Julia. She was still vomiting, 
but not to my satisfaction. 

Fearing that the means thus far employed would not 
suffice to dislodge the poison, I sent for the stomach- 
pump, passed the tube down into the stomach, and drew 
forth what liquid I could. Through the tube I then 
filled the stomach with warm water, and immediately 
afterwards pumped it up again : the liquid thus removed 
was still strongly charged with the rank odor of opium. 
This process was repeated several times in succession, 
until I was satisfied that so much of the poison as re- 
mained unabsorbed was removed. That Julia had 
swallowed the entire contents of the vial, there was no 
reason to doubt. 


physician’s journal. 


203 


We had but little more than time to conclude these 
active measures before Julia’s step-father entered the 
room ; and paying no regard to the presence of a 
stranger, he commenced anew to heap his abusive and 
obscene epithets upon Julia, applying to her names 
which, I have reason to believe, were as unmerited as 
they are unfit for repetition in this sketch. 

I requested him in a kind manner to desist, since 
such excitement of mind as his vituperation created 
could not fail to be hurtful to the patient, in the condi- 
tion in which she was ; but not until I had threatened 
to call in a police-officer to protect me in the discharge 
of my duty, and my patient from his criminal abuse, did 
he cease his foul tirade. As he passed out through the 
door, Julia exclaimed in a voice half-suppressed — 

“Ah ! you cruel man ; you have caused all this !” 

A strong decoction of coffee having been in the mean 
time prepared, I ordered that Julia should drink of this 
at brief intervals ; and with positive directions not to 
allow her to sleep within eight hours, I then left. It 
was now three o’clock in the afternoon. At five, I 
again visited her. I foupd the pulse more nearly 
natural in frequency, but still too forcible. Julia had 
become very drowsy, so much so that the servant- girl 
and her mother were walking her to and fro across the 
room, to prevent her going to sleep. She thanked me 
for the last prescription — the coffee ; but she begged of 
me to allow her to sleep, if only for a few moments . 
I told her that if she would keep her watch faithfully 
until twelve o’clock* she might then sleep the remainder 
of the night. 

At ten, I again called. The pulse was now natural, 


204 


LEAVES FROM A 


and reaction towards a healthy state had evidently taken 
place. I accordingly ordered that she should be allowed 
to retire at the close of another hour, and left to sleep 
through the night. It may be supposed that I left the 
house well pleased with the? result of my efforts. 

Early the next morning I ran in to see my patient. 
After the exciting experience of the previous two days, 
and from the effects of the poisonous drug, she was natu- 
rally enough a good deal prostrated ; and she com- 
plained of much soreness over the chest and region of 
the stomach — the result of severe retching. But she 
had slept calmly and soundly through the hours which 
we allowed her ; and now, after receiving some light 
refreshment, she felt comparatively well. 

That afternoon Julia called at my office. I closed the 
door, and she related to me the subject-matter of the 
parts of this sketch to which I had not been personally 
a witness. Though the family were strangers to me, 
yet, judging from what on the previous day had passed 
under my own observation, I had no reason to doubt the 
recital she gave me. I conversed freely with Julia, and 
improved the occasion to point out to her the enor- 
mity of the crimes of murder and suicide ; and after I 
had obtained from her a solemn promise never again to 
attempt self-destruction, she left. 

But, alas ! Julia’s life seemed prolonged only to give 
her inhuman step-father an opportunity to renew those 
unpleasant scenes which sicken the heart of the obser- 
ver, but far more that of their object and victim. After 
a time, with a despairing heart, and feelings which 
must be imagined, since they cannot be described, 
Julia again left the parental roof, and now never to re- 


physician’s journal. 


205 


turn to it. Heart-broken and discouraged, but still it 
would appear not forgetful of the solemn promise she 
had made to me, she now sought relief in the intoxicat- 
ing bowl. Being young and beautiful, she became an 
easy prey to those prowlers after virtue who are un- 
fortunately to be found in all great cities. Step by step 
she strayed from the paths of virtue, even from the 
semblance of it ; and the last of her history that came 
to my ear, told that she was residing in one of those 
gilded dens of vice in which a mere show of life and 
life’s comforts is purchased at the expense of that which 
is to the true woman the most sacred. 

Julia had many good traits of character : she was 
warm-hearted, kind, and affectionate. She had received 
a good education, and could converse fluently and intel- 
ligently ; but so delicately sensitive was her nature, 
that harsh and abusive language would crush her very 
heart within her. Had she been properly mated, she 
would no doubt have done her part towards making a 
pleasant and desirable home for her husband and family. 
But one hasty and ill-judged step, as if too often does, 
ended in turning a life capable of much of the good and 
happiness that fall to mortal lot, into failure, despair, 
and ruin 1 

Such, gentle reader, is our sketch of one who was res- 
cued from that which could poison the body, but fell, at 
last, a victim to the more fatal poisoning of the soul. 
But our province has been to pen the facts ; we leave 
you to draw for yourself the lessons they teach. 


206 


LEAVES FROM A 


PLAYING OPOSSUM: 

THE DEAD BROUGHT TO LIFE. 



]^OCTOR, Doctor ! will you come immediately to 

a house in Avenue, No. — , to see a man 

who has either cut his throat, poisoned himself, 
or killed himself in some way or other, I don’t 
know how ?” said a young man who one day entered 
my office, well-nigh breathless with fright and with ex- 
ertion in running. 

H How far is it from here, my young friend ?” I in- 
quired, — adding, “ If it is very far, I cannot go, for I have 
a touch of the rheumatism ; and though I have been out 
all the morning, I have still several places that I must 
visit this afternoon, and” — looking at my watch — “ I 
see that it is already three.” 

“ You remember Mrs. J , don’t you ?” inquired the 

messenger. “ She has been a patient of yours. You 
have doctored in the family often ; though I guess you 

don’t know much about Mr. J , as he is so grave 

that he hardly ever speaks to anybody around his home. 
They say he mopes about his place of business in the 
same way ; but as his son does all the business, it goes 
on just as well without him.” The messenger here 


PHYSICIAN'S JOURNAL. 207 

• 

checked his loquacity, and said : “ But come, Doctor, as 
speedily as possible.” 

Putting into my pockets instruments and medicines 
of variety and amount to meet all ordinary emergencies, 
I sallied forth in company with the young man. 

In about twenty minutes we arrived at the scene of 
the fell disaster — whatever its nature might "be. There 
were crowds of people about the door, and in the hall, 
and on the stairway leading up to the room in which 
the supposed dead man was lying. I met and at once 
recognized his wife, who was in the greatest fright and 
misery, crying and wringing her hands. 

“ 0 Doctor 1” she said, frantically, “ this is dreadful ! 

Mr. J went and shut himself up in his room, and kept 

there, with the door locked against us, for two whole 
days, eating and drinking nothing at all ; and now, there 
he lies, just opposite the door, dead, dead, dead ! Oh 
dear! oh dear! what shall I do? I have called and 
called to him, but he never moved nor stirred — he never 
spoke nor showed any signs of life !” 

I now looked through the keyhole, and there, sure 
enough, at the opposite side of the room, and where the 
light of a window fell in slight degree on his face, I 
could see the form of the prostrate man, and easily iden- 
tified his features. 

“Oh dear ! oh dear !” cried the distracted woman ; and 
I allowed her to go on, knowing that there are moments 
when a full confession is good for the soul, as well as, 
also, that it sometimes discloses facts very material and 
pertinent to a case that is, for the time, shrouded in 
darkness and mystery. “ Oh dear ! poor man !” she 
said, “it is dreadful, dreadful ! I called in the neigh- 


208 


LEAVES FROM A 


• 

bors ; and Mrs. Wilson, Miss Thompson, and Mrs. Jones 
all looked in through the keyhole, and saw him, just as I 
did ; and he never moved hand nor foot. Oh dear ! oh 
dear ! it’s dreadful ! We had a little bit of a spat — 
husband and I always agreed well enough until that 
foolish affair, when he got a little jealous of me on ac- 
count of Mr. G , his former partner in business, and, 

God knows, he never had any reason to be so — but 
there was not much said by either of us about it. He 
did say he would put an end to his existence some day, 
and then I would think more of him than I now did. I 
thought he only said so to scare me. I little thought 
then he would do it so soon. And when we had one 
spat, I said, ‘Well, you may kill yourself if you will. 
I guess no one will suffer more than yourself.’ How 
sorry I am now that I said that ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! 
how dreadful !” 

Myself and the other bystanders now pretty well un- 
derstood the causes which had led to what, in the stere- 
otyped newspaper parlance, would be called “the rash 
act” — that is, providing any act of particular rashness 
had been committed. Moreover, by this time also the 
police had entered, and had been scrutinizing through 
the keyhole the appearance of the body, and, so far as 
they could see it, of the room. Led by what the wife 
and the neighbors said, and by the look of things within 
th& room, they had concluded that probably it was all 
over with the poor man. They accordingly burst open 
the door ; but, aware of my presence and of my profes- 
sion, they did not as yet touch or disturb the body. 

Admitting the account given by the wife and the 
others as true, I was, of course, brought to the same 


physician’s journal. 


209 


opinion with the minions of the law, that the form lying 
in careless and relaxed posture before me was now but 
a corpse. However, it was my duty, even if I thought 
the man quite dead, still to make every effort that 
would tend to recall the vital spark, if by chance it yet 
lingered — and that although the attempt might seem to 
be altogether fruitless. Accordingly, I went up to the 
dead man and felt for the pulse. I was first struck with 
the fact that, though the face and hands were very pale, 
yet the hand I took up had not the clammy coldness of 
that of a corpse ; and what was my still greater sur- 
prise, when I put my fingers on the wrist, to find the 
pulse — though it was somewhat feeble — still beating 
away as briskly at least as that of many a patient I 
then had under my care, and of whose convalescence I 
entertained not the slightest doubt ! Here was a reve- 
lation indeed ! 

“ Oho ! my fine fellow !” said I, mentally, “ I find 
you are ‘ playing opossum ’ I, too, will play a trick with 
you, and one you will not soon forget.” 

I gave the police-officers the wink. I had them close 
the door of the room, to prevent any more persons from 
coming in, so that I might have free access to my 
“ opossum.” There were enough left in the room, how- 
ever, to witness the joke. Meanwhile, his weeping wife 
and a few sympathizing friends were in an adjoining 
room, where they were crying their eyes out over the 
sad affair. We could hear his wife very distinctly be- 
wailing her prospective widowhood, and the other wo- 
men trying to console her with various considerations, 
such as — “ He was a loving husband — he has left you 
comfortable in this world’s goods — your children are- all 


210 


LEAVES FROM A 


nearly grown, and your eldest son can attend to your 
little business,” etc., etc. 

I now laid hold of the prostrate man ? s hand, and, first 
giving a wink to the people in the room, I said, “ It is 
quite cold : his limbs are beginning to be stiff” — feeling 
of them at the same time. “ But I have known, both in 
my own experience and from the history of similar in- 
stances, that there is a sort of cases of very peculiar 
character in which men have actually been brought to 
life by bleeding. The opening of a vein in the arm, and 
taking from it a large quantity of blood, has been known 
to act upon the nervous system of some persons in a very 
wonderful manner, having even the effect of restoring 
the lost vitality. At least, when life is at its last flicker, 
the loss of three or four pounds of blood, taken in this 
way, so shocks the whole system that it either kills or 
cures !” 

The police-officers had fully entered into the idea 
which I had endeavored to convey to them, that the 
man was only playing with his wife’s fears. “Don’t 
you think, Doctor,” said one of them gravely, and with 
a tone of apprehension, “ that it would be dangerous, if 
the person had any life left , to take away so much blood 
as you speak of?” 

“ Most certainly it is dangerous,” I answered, “ but 
desperate cases require desperate remedies. So, here’s 
for it ! Now, just tear that coat-sleeve open, and roll up 
the shirt-sleeve above the elbow. Bring a large wash- 
hand basin. Stop a moment : you may as well bring 
two, for fear one will not be large enough to hold all 
the blood 1” 

Every thing being now in readiness, I began to ex- 


physician's journal. 


211 


amine my lancets. “ This is a good sharp one, but it 
will not make an incision large and deep enough,” I 
said, looking at the same time at the officers, who could 
now scarcely keep their countenances ; and then select- 
ing another — “ This one is the thing ! It is almost as 
large as a scalpel — the sort of instruments, you know, 
that we dissect with in college ; and this , you see, is 
about as big as a small-sized butter-knife !” 

While I made the last remark, I looked at the seem- 
ingly closed eyes of our dead man, and could see just 
one corner of his eyes open, allowing him to take a keen 
and appreciative squint at my mammoth lancet. “ All 
right !” I mentally exclaimed, “ the medicine is acting 
‘ like a charm.’ ” 

“ There, now,” I continued, aloud, “ please bind up the 
arm, just above the elbow. Tie the handkerchief as 
tight as you can ; and keep a bright lookout that it 
don’t get loose. — Now, here 1 Come one of you, gentle- 
men, and hold his wrist firmly, keeping the arm out 
straight, and bending it slightly outward, so as to swell 
the vein I am about to open.” 

All things being by this, time in readiness, I took my 
huge lancet between my finger and thumb, and ap- 
proached it towards the exposed and bandaged arm, say- 
ing, “ Steady, now, gentlemen !” when, lo I suddenly Mr. 
Opossum gave a sharp, though half-suppressed scream, 
sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “ I’m d — d if you’ll bleed 
me to-day, anyhow !” and made off as fast as he could, 
elbowing his way out of the room. 

Such a roar of laughter as thereupon ensued I believe 
I never heard before nor since. We all laughed to- 
gether, and in all conceivable keys and fashions — some 


212 


LEAVES FROM A 


of us holding our sides, and others sitting down to enjoy 
the thing the more thoroughly ; and thus we continued 
for some time, taking the full benefit of the joke. The 
unhappy widow — that was to be — came into th« room, 
and, in spite of the deep depression and self-humiliation 
under which she had just been laboring, or, perhaps, on 
account of it, now joined most heartily in the laugh. 

But the story was too good to be kept all to ourselves. 
It spread rapidly through the house, and everywhere the 
laugh went with it, and then out into the street, where 
the whole crowd that were just now anxiously await- 
ing the denouement of the sad case, and even the boys 
and girls, caught the infection of merriment ; and you 
could hear the boys shouting, “ Dead man come to life ! 11 
11 Bully for him — bully for him /” while the more thought- 
ful among the grown members of the crowd seemed to 
conclude that bleeding must be an excellent remedy for 
“ sulks,” and that, at any rate, “All's well that ends 
well !” 

The wife said to me, in parting, “ Well, Doctor, that 
was queer — wasn't it ?” 

“ Rather so,” I replied ; “ but never mind : your hus- 
band is alive — that is the best joke of all.” 



physician’s journal. 


213 


THE MINISTER’S WIFE. 

MATERNAL LOVE. 


n pLT may seem strange to the reader of these brief 
'MpL sketches that so many of the subjects selected 
f° r n °ti ce should be those who do not recover — 
' l thereby impliedly leading to a supposition, per- 
haps, of the unskilfulness of the writer in his profession, 
or the uncertainty and imperfection of the healing art. 

One great reason why this appears so is, that it is 
chiefly with the dying, and those who feel they are to 
leave earth and friends, that all their intenser nature 
shines forth and flashes out ; that as they realize the 
dread reality of separation, of future existence, of the 
parting of soul and body — thoughts and feelings, say- 
ings and doings, take place which else never had been. 
And then the living remember and treasure up every 
thing said and done by the departing and departed, 
which, had they lived, had never been thought of. 
There is something so awfully grand and sublimely 
mysterious to the living about death, that every event 
connected with it makes an indelible impression upon 
the senses and intellect. 

Thus it is we, in common with others, note the im- 
pressive, the touching, and the sad — especially if it be 


214 


LEAVES FROM A 


connected with those to whom in life we have been 
bound by peculiar ties. 

Nothing could be more affecting, more instructive, or 
mournfully impressive, than the scenes we shall attempt 
to describe, though deeply conscious that the reality in- 
finitely transcends our efforts in this imperfect sketch. 
And should the eye of the husband light upon this brief 
outline of those scenes, he will recognize them, and those 
• words uttered by his dear departed one, which he will 
remember but too well : he will pardon the liberty taken, 
and look charitably on the effort to perpetuate the mem- 
ory of one so beautiful in her life and so lovely in her 
death. 

Mary Ann McP- , the wife of Kev. Mr. McP , 

was brought up a Quakeress, and early became the sub- 
ject of deeply serious religious impressions, and at the 
age of fifteen became a devoted, pious Christian. Trim 
as a fawn, gentle as a lamb, modest to a fault, and of 
bright and clear intellect, which a thorough education 
drew out and improved, she soon attracted the love and 
admiration of her future husband, who was then a theo- 
logical student at a seminary in the neighborhood where 
she resided, where he was preparing for the ministry. 

Four years following her entrance into the church she 
was united in marriage, at the age of nineteen, and be- 
came a minister’s wife — a position of no small responsi- 
bility and care, and one she never would have assumed 
but for the love she bore her young husband. 

The vicissitudes of ministerial life, change of resi- 
dence, the birth of four children, together with all the 
cares of life, gradually undermined her fragile form, and 
upon their removal to this city her health seemed greatly 


physician’s journal. 215 

impaired. Sitting in my office one afternoon, her hus- 
band, with whom I had but a slight acquaintance, en- 
tered, and, with an anxious countenance and subdued 
manner, inquired “ if I would not go with him and see 
his wife.” 

As my office-hours were nearly closed, I accompanied 
him to his residence. On the way thither I strove to 
get from him all the information I could, to aid me in my 
diagnosis of the ca*e. His answers were so intelligent 
and scientific that I had no fears of ascertaining her 
physical disabilities, and decided it must be an affection 
of the lungs of some kind. 

“ You must have studied medicine ?” I asked of him 
as we had concluded our inquiries, “you seem so well 
acquainted with medical terms and the nature of dis- 
ease.” 

“ I was educated for a missionary,” he replied, “ and 
you know they all study medicine now as well as 
divinity. But my wife’s friends would not consent to 
our going to heathen lands, though she would have 
gone willingly, and has regretted she did not almost 
ever since. It might have saved her life — the change 
of climate.” 

“ Do you fear for her life now ?” I asked, with some 
concern. 

“ Not immediately,” he replied calmly, though with 
the deepest feeling. 

We had now arrived at the house, which we entered, 
and met four delicate, though healthy-looking children, 
at the door, who seemed overjoyed at seeing their father, 
whom they all asked in an undertone, yet with great 
eagerness, “ Is this the doctor ?” 


216 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Oh, I’m so glad !” said the eldest, a girl of some eight 
years, “ for I hope he will make mother well.” 

They all now ran merrily along the hall and up stairs, 

Mr. McP leading me up to the mother’s chamber. 

The children had announced our coming ; and as I en- 
tered the room, each child took its place around the 
mother, while she seemed more intent on looking at 
them than on any other object. 

Ere I was introduced to her, I stood a moment and 
viewed her intently. There was the light, silky, auburn 
hair, alabaster skin, beautiful blue eye, large, full, and 
expressive, and the light damask crimson tint of the 
fading consumptive on her cheek. 

“ Bad physique,” thought I, as I advanced. “ So many 
children too, and so soon following each other ; bad, 
very bad, for one so frail. Sometimes they keep off con- 
sumption, but, alas ! not in your case.” 

I was duly introduced, when, with inimitable grace 
and lady-like bearing, she arose, courtesied* extended 
her hand to mine, shook it firmly, and then sat down, 
when she began a hectoring cough. I drew up a chair 
by her side, and began to ask questions in a somewhat 
hesitating manner. 

“ At the very outset, Doctor,” said she, “ let us per- 
fectly understand each other. I want you to be perfectly 
open and frank with me, as I shall be with you. If you 
think me dangerous, say so ; it is all the same to me. 
As to myself, only two ties bind me to earth, my chil — 
and my husband,” she chokingly said, her large eyes 
filling with tears, which were wiped away as quickly as 
they came. 

I had seen too much of the weakness of poor human 


physician’s journal. 


217 


nature, notwithstanding her expressed desire for frank- 
ness, not to know that it is an awful shock to any one, 
no matter how good and pious they may be, to be told 
by one they believed knew their case, and in whom they 
have confidence, that they cannot live . I went on with my 
examination as if I had not heard her remarks. 

When I had concluded, she literally stared me in the 
face ; her large eyes were fixed on me, and her breast 
was rising and falling like the waves of the sea after a 
storm. I arose calmly, and removed to a seat near a 
secretary to write a prescription. 

“ What is your decision, Doctor ?” she eagerly asked, 
and then looked at her husband and children in turn, 
with mingled emotions of anxiety and affection. 

“ My decision is, madam, you are quite sick, and need 
help ; and I think this medicine I am about to prescribe 
will help you.” 

“ But my lungs, my lungs, what of them ? They are 
not seriously affected, are they? Husband thinks so, 
but I don’t. Now, decide who is right ; both of us can- 
not be ; which is correct ?” 

“ Madam, I fear your husband is nearer the truth than 
you are.” 

“ Then you think I will die soon ?” 

“ You are like most of your sex, madam — you jump 
at conclusions. I said nothing as yet of dying soon.” 

“ Doctor, it means that ; and it is, if you say right — 
and I believe you do — but a question of time.” 

I made no reply, but wrote out the prescription, and 
arose to leave. 

There was now an evident change in her whole de- 
meanor and countenance. It was not so much sadness, 
10 


218 


LEAVES FROM A 


fear, or astonishment at the impression I left on her 
mind, as of calm, resolute girding up her mind for some 
coming conflict or struggle — a drawing in of the mind’s 
powers, a concentration of mental energy, and a tinge 
of mingled melancholy and triumph, something, appar- 
ently, like what would be the feelings of a self-reliant 
captain when preparing his ship to encounter a storm 
at sea. She seemed beyond weeping now, though, from 
her tender words and tones, her husband and children 
could not refrain from weeping bitterly. 

Frequent and long as were my conversations with 
her husband, at his house and my office, during several 
weeks, he could gather no morsel of hope that she would 
rally, and with all those alternations of hope and fear, 
so characteristic of the fluctuating nature of the disease, 
she gradually and slowly went down into the deep vortex 
of life’s silent goal. As I sat by her side one beautiful 
summer afternoon towards evening, her husband and chil- 
dren surrounding her, she broke forth like the carolling 
of a bird nearly as follows : 

u White, beautiful, fleecy clouds, how calm you rush 
over the blue vault of heaven, the steeds of angels and 
glorified souls ! I shall soon fly up, and up, beyond you 
to the whiter throne of the glorious One, and, amid the 
white robes of all climes, and tongues, and nations, bask 
in the eternal brightness and joy of heaven. 0 earth ! 
earth 1 how green your carpeting, how beautiful your 
flowers, how delightful your friendships, how holy your 
loves ! but they must be severed, and the fading ones 
fly away, while the sorrowing ones stay to weep and 
mourn, to think, be sad, and await our reunion where 
sorrow never comes. Blessed thought 1” 


physician's journal. 


219 


Her children and husband could scarce restrain them- 
selves from the most extravagant sorrow. 

“ You weep, dearest ones,” she continued, “ but I can- 
not weep ; I wish I could ! But oh ! you will all come 
soon ; and oh, the glory, the heavenly visions, the bright 
seraphic scenes before me — beautiful as the sea of glass, 
bright as the vision of angels, sweet as the music of 
heaven — oh ! beautiful, beautiful, beautiful in holiness.” 

Her ecstasy had evidently overpowered her physical 
strength, and she sank exhausted back on her couch. 

Her husband and children gathered around her, fear- 
ing “ the silver cord” had been loosed, but she soon re- 
turned to consciousness, and called her children to come 
nearer to her. As they drew near, she ordered the nurse 
to bring four small Bibles she had bought for them. 
They were brought. She looked carefully over each 
one, then laid it down, examining the fly-leaf of each, 
for some reason I could not divine just then, but which 
she soon explained. 

“ There, dearest Florentine, you are my oldest. Take 
this little Bible, and love it above all other books ; and 
when your mother's body lies in the cemetery, cherish 
her memory and this gift, and think, dearest, * I have a 
mother in heaven looking down upon me, who once loved 
me, and still does, and who prayed for me from my ear- 
liest infancy.' ” 

The poor child threw her arms around her mother's 
neck, and faintly uttered, “ Oh, mamma 1 mamma ! you 
won't die — oh, oh, what will we do ?” 

The mother folded her closer to her bosom, while she 
handed the second Bible to the second child. “ Take 
this gift, Letta ,” she calmly said, her eyes turned up- 


220 


LEAVES FfiOM A 


wards, “ and read it through once every year ; and see 
the motto I have written for you with my own hand : 

“ By cool Siloam’s shady rill 
The lily must decay ; 

The rose that blooms beneath the hill 
Must shortly fade away.” 

“ Remember, Letta, you are like your mother in form 
and looks, and may soon fade away ; but love Jesus, 
pray to Him often, and we shall see and meet where no 
lilies fade, and where separation is not known.” 

Her youngest child, a little boy, who had been watch- 
ing every movement she made, and whose eyes were 
suffused with tears, now got down from his father’s 
knees, where he had been sitting, and rushing up to her, 
exclaimed, “ Ma — ma! mamma, let Willie go too.” 

“ Go where, dear ?” 

“ Where you go, mamma.” 

“ Mamma is going to heaven,” said the mother calmly, 
“ and Willie will come by-and-by, but not now, dear. 
But, Willie dear, here is a little book for you ; and when 
you can read and understand it, you must think of mam- 
ma, and how she kissed you good-by, and told you to 
be good, and read it every day.” 

The poor child sobbed, laid his head upon her shoulder, 
threw his tiny arms around her neck, but seemed incapa- 
ble of appreciating the scene. 

11 Lizzy, the last child, but not least beloved, this is 
your little Bible,” the mother continued, “ and in it you 
will find a mother’s prayer. Let me read it to you, but 
read it often yourself ; and when I am gone, remember 
your poor mother.” 


physician’s journal. 


221 


“ Oh may life’s early spring 
And morning, ere they flee, 

Youth’s dew, and its fair blossoming, 

Be given, my God, to Thee” 

The children had now formed a most lovely and in- 
teresting group around and upon her bed, and all were 
weeping or sobbing. 

Her husband sat at the head of her bed, his head rest- 
ing on the head-board, and his tears falling drop by 
drop on the carpet ; yet he was silent as the grave. 

At last she addressed him thus — 

“ Husband, nearly ten years of our married life have 
passed away, and not one jarring chord has marred our 
love or disturbed our peace, but we now part, not for- 
ever, but for a short time — I to joys, you to cares ; I to 
Heaven, you to remain in this vale of tears ; but when 
you surround my grave, when you visit it, and flowers 
spring up around it, you will hear my voice from Heaven 
saying, ‘ You’ll come soon : be happy, be faithful ; and 
children and parents will meet again on the blest shores 
of immortality.’ ” 

One week more and I was hastily summoned to her 
dying couch. Her husband, children, and many friends 
were there : all seemed in the deepest distress but 
herself. 

With a smile she welcomed me, and requested them 
to sing a favorite hymn — 

“Joyfully, joyfully, onward I move, 

Bound to the land of bright spirits above ; 

Angelic choristers sing as I come, 

Joyfully, joyfully, haste to my home.” 

As they continued to sing she strove to join them, but 


222 


LEAVES FROM A 


failed, when she placed her hands together, raising them 
and her eyes upwards, and in an audible, but weak 
voice said, “ Come, come, come 1” waving her hands as 
if speaking to some one. 

“ Oh, the throne, the company, the beauty, the glory, 
the holiness ; flowers that never fade, companions that 
never grow sick or die, Jesus Himself to wipe all tears 
away, and the river, the river, the trees, the beauty — 
beautiful, oh beautiful ! v then closed her eyes and folded 
her hands on her bosom, and seemed to go to sleep. 

All drew nearer, thinking all was over; but no, in a few 
moments her eyes opened, when she beckoned her chil- 
dren nearer to her. With her hands stretched over as 
many as she could, she slowly and laboriously whis- 
pered — 

“ I saw a great white throne, and Him — thro-n-e 
gr-e-a-t white th-r-o-n-e — come, c-o-m-e/’ and then slowly- 
breathed, and then, with a few long-drawn gasps, 
expired. 

We all knelt down around her bed, while a minister- 
ing brother, a former college -mate of the husband, com- 
mended the passing spirit, and the immediate relatives, 
to the keeping of Him whose way is a great deep, and 
whose paths are past finding out. 



PHYSICIAN’S JOURNAL. 


223 


THE YOUNG CLERGYMAN. 



[HERE is no condition in life so perplexing as the 
struggle between duty and affection. Why the 
Divine Being should ordain or merely permit, 
as many contend, such a conflict in human 
hearts and affairs is one of the many enigmas of man’s 
existence. If we have mysteries in Religion, in Chris- 
tianity, so have we in the daily affairs of life. If our 
faith goes above and beyond our reason and explana- 
tions, &o also do oftentimes our loves and hates, joys 
and fears. If there are real or seeming contradictions 
in the circle of religious truth, so is there in the circle 
of human affairs. Duty often clashes with passion. 

Inclination, feeling, and human love frequently cross 
at right angles justice, truth, and right. 

Sentiment and passion too often, especially in the 
young and inexperienced, steer the ship through life’s 
breakers. Hence the many unhappy marriages and 
antagonistic domestic relations in the world. Fancy 
rather than judgment, sentiment rather than reason, 
has guided the marital choice, and a longer or shorter 
life of mental anguish has been the price paid for one 
false step. Declaim never so much against all this, the 
denizens of the world will go on in their usual paths, 


/ 


224 


LEAVES FROM A 


and pass through the same general experiences, good 
and bad. 

And yet, to the credit of human nature, it may be 
said that there is much joy and happiness, notwithstand- 
ing their repulsion, in the domestic circle. There are 
bad, morose, and ill-grained husbands and wives, no 
doubt, but they are overbalanced by the good ones, 
making the former only exceptional. 

These reflections were thrust upon me as I returned 
home after having visited professionally, on a warm 
summer’s afternoon, a young clergyman. He was a city 
pastor with numerous friends, a large flourishing con- 
gregation, a fine salary, and living in very comfortable, 
if not elegant style. 

As I entered the chamber of sickness I heard deep 
groans, indicating mental rather than physical suffer- 
ing. There were two most respectably dressed, rather 
aged females by the side of the sick man, the one fan- 
ning his feverish brow, the other adjusting the bed- 
clothes, and watching him with intense interest. In a 
rocking-chair close to him sat an aged gentleman, evi- 
dently a sympathizing brother minister, and close to the 
window stood two fashionably-dressed and fine-looking 
gentlemen, looking out into a beautiful flower-garden. 
Completing the group, a young and beautiful girl sat on 
a low divan, her handkerchief partially covering her 
face, endeavoring to conceal her emotions. 

“ Good-afternoon, Doctor,” said a tall gentleman, ex- 
tending his hand as he approached me, and whose 
presence I had not noticed before. I readily recognized 
a medical brother, and returned his fraternal saluta- 
tions. “ Oh, a consultation!” I mentally exclaimed. In- 


physician’s journal. 225 

troducing me to the company in a general way, he next 
presented me in flattering terms to the patient. The 
sick man grasped my hand firmly, and motioning me to 
be seated, I at once commenced my examination. 

A slow fever, much indigestion, and great nervous 
prostration seemed his present prominent disabilities. 

“ Doctor,” said the patient, “ I am very much reduced, 
and desire your attendance with my family physician.” 

We retired to consult. 

“ What has been done ?” I inquired, “ and for what 
object ; in other words, what have you considered his 
disease, and what remedies have you employed to coun- 
teract it ?” 

“ The case has baffled all my own skill, and the skill 
of two other physicians besides,” and entering into a 
detailed statement of the circumstances in the case, he 
finished by revealing to me the fact that the patient not 
only desired my advice medically, but in a moral point 
of view, — having known that I was a member of a 
sister Christian church. “ In short, Doctor, he thinks he 
will die. I have tried in vain to remove this impres- 
sion, and he desires a physician for soul and body, as he 
expresses it. Not being a professed Christian, at his 
own request, and in concurrence with my own judg- 
ment, we selected you as the most fitting man for the 
case. His mind at times wanders, sometimes on Heaven 
and the future state, then on his deceased wife, and 
friends in a distant part of the country. Then he talks 
to himself frequently about some female relative or 
friend by the name of Sarah, but so incoherently as to 
be quite unintelligible. His wife died some two years 
since, and his only child, a little boy, soon followed,— 
10 * 


226 


LEAVES FROM A 


all of which, with his lonely life, has no doubt had a de- 
pressing influence on his spirits. His friends have 
urged him to get married, but he has steadily repelled 
all such thoughts. Neither wealth nor beauty has charms 
for him ; and even the young lady you saw in his sick- 
chamber, a most eligible match, being young, rich, 
beautiful, and withal religious, and even, it is said, in 
love with him, has failed to alter his resolution never to 
marry.” 

Having finished our consultation and determined our 
course, we returned to the presence of the sick man. 

I now re-examined him, and writing two prescrip- 
tions, which were duly signed by the family physician, 
I prepared to retire. 

The patient seeing this, beckoned me to him. 

“ Doctor,” said he faintly, “ pray with me before you 
go,” and grasping my hand firmly, he whispered to me : 
“ Come to-morrow, alone” laying much stress on the 
word alone. “ 1 wish,” he continued, “ to see you alone, 
except my nurse, my old’ faithful nurse, whose faithful- 
ness never fails me.” 

I nodded assent, commended him to God in prayer, 
and hastily left, — the afternoon half spent, and much 
labor yet to be performed. As I whirled along over the 
strongly-paved streets, I now remember exclaiming, 
loud enough to be heard but for the noise of my car- 
riage, “ Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ?” the 
words of Macbeth to his wife’s physician — “ mysterious 
case — medicine wont cure mental maladies” — “ a broken 
spirit who can bear ?” 

A physician, what a life he leads ! how complicated, 
how varied and difficult his labors ! — out at all hours, 


physician’s journal. 


227 


day and night, storm and sunshine, dealing with the 
bodies, and minds, and peculiarities of both sexes, and 
all conditions and ranks of humankind. But cheer up, 
medical brother ; though we have much light and 
shade, joy and sadness to pass through, we will fight 
the good fight of JEsculapius. 

August 17th found me late in the evening by the bed- 
side of my new patient. He is nervous and greatly 
agitated . 

“ You are late, Doctor,” said he, “ but I am glad to 
see you. I have had much company to-day, and I feel 
it now keenly. But it is best after all you have come 
so late, as there will be no one to interrupt us.” 

“ That was my reason,” said I, “ for not coming be- 
fore.” 

“ I suspected as much,” he rejoined. “ Bring the 
chair near me, so I may converse more freely, Doctor,” 
said he when he had controlled his emotions sufficiently 
to command his utterances; “ my sands of life are nearly 
run : my shadow declineth : I care for only one thing 
in this life — to finish my mission and ministry which 
has been committed to me. Hear the history of a brief 
but eventful life. 

“Two years ago last February I buried my wife. 
She died in this house, and on this bed, which I think 
will prove to me the bed of death. I buried my only 
child, a son, a few months afterwards. They both sleep 
in their native village churchyard. Ten years ago I 

graduated in college with the highest honors, with 

a debt on me of one thousand dollars, contracted in the 
pursuit of knowledge and science. 

“ While at college, I boarded with a poor but honest 


228 


LEAVES FROM A 


mechanic. He had an only daughter, who, when I first 
knew her, was a simple, sweet child of fourteen sum- 
mers, with mild blue eyes, auburn hair, and finely- 
moulded form. Poor Sarah’s education was neglected, 
chiefly on account of a feeble mother, whose infirmities 
required Sarah’s almost constant attendance. For four 
•years my pleasure and my pride was to train up her 
fertile, capable, and noble mind. 

“ Her rapid progress in every truly ennobling study 
amply rewarded my exertions. Her entire being and 
character changed, from the innocent and beautiful 
child, to the full, perfect, and gracefully-developed 
woman. Her voice, always fine, now became full, 
strong, and deeply sympathetic, and while her care and 
affection for her mother never relaxed, she yet kept on 
in her mental labors, until she had mastered all the 
principal English studies and two modern languages, 
French and Italian. Up to this time she appeared to 
me in the relation of a pupil. I was to her I know not 
what — a venerated being, who she felt had made her all 
she was. She would sit by my side for hours, and ask 
me questions on all subjects.” 

But here he paused, tears choking his utterance. 

“ She was now no longer a child. She was a full- 
grown woman, with all the feelings, hopes, aspirations, 
delicacies, and affections of her sex. A critical period 
to us both now arrived. I was soon to graduate and 
leave the place and her, and she began to assume that 
manner and bearing towards me indicative of those 
feelings which manifest themselves where an attach- 
ment arises between those of the opposite sex. Our in- 
terviews for some time had gradually changed in their 


physician’s journal. 


229 


character, and subjects of sentiment and love had been 
intermixed with other matters. As I must in a few 
months leave her home and presence, tender thoughts of 
parting often entered unbidden and unwelcome into our 
minds, and often formed the subject of conversation. 
On our return from church one evening, all having re- 
tired but ourselves, we sat together on the veranda. 
It was a beautiful summer’s evening. The sun had 
gone down in an effulgence of glory, bathing in light 
the hill-tops and all surrounding objects. The stars, one 
by one, began to sparkle, the fragrant balmy air fanned 
our locks, and bore on its bosom the scented odors of 
distant hay-fields and nearer flower-gardens, while the 
beautiful stillness of all around conduced to reflection 
and rest. 

“ * Sarah,’ said I, ‘ we must soon part, and our present, 
and many other pleasant and well-remembered inter- 
views bejnterrupted ; it may be for a brief time, it may 
be forever : but I shall often think of you.’ 

“She was silent. A pause ensued. I then drew 
nearer to her, and looking into her eyes as she partly 
averted them from me, they were filled with tears, and 
taking her by the hand, it was cold as marble. The 
color had left her cheek, while a choking sensation pre- 
vented the utterance of what she seemed about to say. 
A world of meaning seemed to be expressed in her 
looks and silence, and I assured myself, there and then, 
of what I had often wished, hoped, and thought of: 
If she loved me as I did her, and if, in the providence of 
God, Sarah ever should be mine ! Only one short 
week, and we shall then part from each other. Brief 
period ! Oh, how tender she was, and how sweet our 


230 


LEAVES FROM A 


interviews. I often now think of .Burns and his High- 
land Mary, and read those exquisitely written verses as 
I never read them before : 

“ ‘ With many a vow and lock’d embrace 
Our parting was full tender ; 

And pledging oft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder. 

“ ‘ The golden hours on Angel wings 
Flew o’er me and my* dearie ; 

For dear to me as light and life 
W as my sweet Highland Mary.’ 

“ Sad were our hearts on the morning w r e parted. 
But our faith in each other, our plighted vows, all our 
arranged plans, mutually known and understood, min- 
gled with our sorrows ; but our future hopes and dreams 
of happiness gave the clouds enveloping us a silver 
lining. 

“ July 25th I left my Sarah, first to visit an aged, 
widowed mother, and then to assume the duties of a 
pastor over a small congregation in Vermont. 

“ Only one impediment stood in the way of our nup- 
tials — a debt of six hundred dollars, contracted before 
and since my entrance upon college life. With a stout 
heart, having now an object before it, this hinderance 
would, I thought, soon be overcome. Six months, or 
one year at furthest, would make Sarah my bride. 

“ New duties and scenes engaged me for a time in 
my new calling, and I made no concealment of my re- 
lations with Sarah to my new friends. I toiled hard to 
extricate myself from debt, but a sick, dependent, aged 
mother must be provided for ; and at the end of six 


physician’s jouknal. 


231 


months I was no nearer freedom than when I emerged 
from the walls of my Alma Mater. 

“ A call to the present church, of which I am now 
only nominal pastor, was given ; and I accepted, chiefly 
because it would give me the desire of my heart sooner 
— means to wed, and a home for an honored mother. 
But, alas ! alas ! here really began my greatest sor- 
rows. Once installed, my brethren of the church and 
my ministerial brethren importunately urged me to 
marry. In my innocency I revealed to them the secret 
of my heart and life. 

“ Some of them, ominously shaking their heads, said, 
‘ A country girl will never do.’ My ministerial brethren 
urged me to marry a girl with means to pay off my 
debts ; and all seemed to think, without seeing or 
knowing Sarah, that she was not the one most suitable 
for a large city. 

“ Sarah and I corresponded frequently. I confidently 
thought, could they but see her their minds would be as 
mine ; and I arranged matters so that, without com- 
promising either of us in the matter, she visited one of 
my parishioners with my aged mother. This, to my 
sorrow and surprise, but increased the seeming combi- 
nations against her. 

“ She returned home, and for six months I heard 
nothing of or from her ; I writing, meanwhile, as often 
as formerly, while the cares of a new and large church 
prevented my visiting her. In short, our letters were 
intercepted, and by whom ? I knew it not for a long 
period, until by accident, one year from the date of her 
last letter, I received a letter from her which in part 
explained a world of doubt and mystery. Nurse,” said 


232 


LEAVES FROM A 


he, “ show the Doctor that letter.” The old nurse pulled 
from her bosom a letter and handed it to me, with the 
remark, “ That letter has never left my bosom for some 
four years.” “ I confided that precious document to 
her, Doctor,” said the invalid, “ remembering how I had 
been treated in relation to other letters.” It read as 
follows, as near as my memory serves : 


“ N J , Oct. — , 18— . 

“ Dear William : 

“ This is the thirteenth week of my confinement to 
my sick-chamber. I say dear William, but pardon me 
for using a term I now have no right to use, as another 
has that right exclusively ; but. I cannot give you up, 
though you, they say, have given me up. However, 
God knows I love you, and shall until death comes to 
relieve poor Sarah of her earthly woes, mental and 
physical. I cannot, if I would, forget our many pleasant 
meetings, our moonlight walks, our afternoon wander- 
ings, our vows of love, our studies — all, all, in my loneli- 
ness, come back like dreams. 

“ But why do I wander thus ? There has been great 
sorrow and disappointment for me, and now the grave 
opens to receive me, and I sink into its peaceful slum- 
bers, glad to be at rest from a world of care and sorrow. 
But ere I die, let me know once more you have not for- 
gotten your poor broken-hearted Sarah. I ask not your 
love — I never was worthy of it ; all I ask is, remember 
Sarah, your poor, ignorant country girl, that once lived 
in the humble cottage by the murmuring brook near the 
river-side. 


‘ Yours forever, 


Sarah.” 


physician’s journal. 


233 


“ There,” said the sick man, drying his eyes of their 
tears, “ how must I feel when I think how innocently I 
have been the cause of so much suffering to one whom 
I loved better than any other living being ?” 

“ But,” said I, “ she is still living, is she not ?” 

Burying his head in his pillow, he exclaimed, “ Oh ! 
no, no, no ! She died, as I learned, three weeks after I 
was married to another. Hearing, no doubt, of my union 
with another, it hastened her death.” 

“ But how,” I inquired, “ were you kept apart, and 
how was your correspondence with each other pre- 
vented ?” 

“ Ah ! there is the mystery, still unrevedled. I now, 
and for more than two years, knew of her love, her con- 
stancy, and deep devotion — but only by others, those to 
whom she committed her secret griefs ere she left this 
wicked world. Oh, yes — 

“ ‘ I think of her now, with her sunny brow, 

And her eye full of childish glee. 

When the world seemed bright in the golden light 
Of the scenes which were to be. 

I think of her now, with her thoughtful brow. 

And her eye undimmed by a tear, 

As she sang her song to the evening breeze 
On the eve of her eighteenth year. 

“ ‘ I think of her now, with her weary brow, 

Her meek eye dimmed with tears, 

That told of the grief and pleasures brief 
She had known in former years. 

I think of her now, with her shining brow. 

On the evergreen shore of the blest, 

By the great white throne, where the angels roam 
In the mansions of endless rest/ ” 


234 


LEAVES FROM A 


The adjoining church-clock struck twelve, and finding 
both myself and patient exhausted, I retired, promising 
to call again soon. 

August 21 . — Poor Mr. W is much worse. What 

I feared has now taken place — heart disease; and incipi- 
ent dropsy, its usual attendant, has supervened. I now 
fear his own worst anticipations will be realized. His 
faithful nurse, ever by his side, has slept on the sofa 
near him for four weeks ; only taking time to change 
her clothes when he sleeps or dozes. 

“ Doctor,” said lie, “ I am worse this morning. Your 
labor and my suffering will soon cease. It is well ; 
God’s will be done.” And folding his hands across his 
breast, he slowly, yet distinctly, uttered the following 
stanzas : 


“Weary, and sick, and sad, 

Tossing the long days on a bed of pain. 

One dream I have, one yearning all in vain, 

Even as Mizpeh had. 

“ Around my dying brow, 

Through close-drawn blinds the summer zephyrs blow. 
Laden with winged song ; perfume of the rose, 

I scarcely heed it now. 

“ Peace ! peace ! a little while. 

And my slow feet will reach the blessed shore. 

Where none can thirst or hunger evermore. 

And friends and dear ones greet me with a smile. 

“ Ay, write it when I die. 

Upon my gravestone : Sufferings below 
Are trifles to the raptures I shall know 
With Christ the Lamb on high. 


PHYSICIAN’S journal. 


235 


“ My slow feet near the shore, 

I will he patient and await God’s time ; 

And, friends, though grieving, read this and be still — 

I shall suffer there no more.” 

I saw all was nearly over, and informed him of my 
feelings, that I could be of little medical service to him. 

“ Attend me,” he said, “ until I die.” 

I left him, certain that he could not last long. But 
when I called two days following my last visit, I saw a 
crowd hurrying in and out, and his family physician’s 
carriage at the door. I entered hastily, but was too 
late. He had just breathed his last. “ Requiescat in 
pace /” — Let him rest in peace ! 



236 


LEAVES FROM A 


THE HEROINE. 



LANDING on the corner of street and 

Avenue one fine summer forenoon, beside 
one of the many paper-stands which may be 
seen in this great city, awaiting a rail-car, I 
was accosted as follows : “ Want a paper, sir ?” 

I bought one, to beguile the moment. 

“ Do you keep this stand ?” 1 inquired. 

“ No, sir ; it belongs to a poor woman they call Mary. 
Hang me if I know her other name. She is a Califor- 
nia widow, as they call her, whose husband can’t get 
home, or don’t want to. They say he is a first-rate en- 
gineer, but drinks like a fish, and gambles when he has 
any thing to put up. So they say. Poor thing ! she 
has now to stay at home most of her time. She has 
three children, and one of them is very sick, and we 
(pointing to three or four carmen, dressed like himself), 
when she is not here, take the money for her papers. 
So, you see, while we are waiting for chance jobs in 
our line, we help her along.” Lifting up one of the 
papers — “ See, here is her little pile,” pointing to a 
number of pennies and some small coin. “At night one 
of us takes the money to the soda-fountain-man on the 
corner, and he sends his clerk with it to her. But she, 


physician’s journal. 


237 


poor thing, has to go every morning very early to get 
the papers, sometimes at four o’clock, all alone, and then 
has to wait, she says, an hour. Not much chance for 
poor folks nowadays, especially poor women.” 

“ You seem to think very highly of her.” 

“We have known her for these three years, and a 
finer little body don’t live in this city. I tell you what 
it is, mister, this is a hard world for poor people.” 

“ Why,” said another of the carmen, stepping up and 
addressing me, planting his closed hands in his sides, 
“ she is a pink of a little body, as neat as wax, clean as 
a new pin, and, when dressed up, as pretty as a picture. 
And my wife, who has known her this many a day, says 
she is a saint on earth.” 

“ And you don’t know her surname ?” 

“Indeed I don’t, but here she comes herself ; she’ll 
tell you. We call her Mary, and that’s all of her name 
I know.” 

“Well, Mary, how is Rosa this morning?” said the 
last speaker. 

“Very ill, indeed,” said the little woman; “ worse than 
yesterday, much worse. I am afraid she is not long for 
this world,” wiping her eyes. “ She breathes very hard, 
raves constantly, picks at the bedclothes, and grows 
thinner all the time.” 

I stepped up to Mary, and asked — 

“ Have you a physician, madam ?” 

“ No, sir, not yet,” the big tear gathering in her eye ; 
“ but I must have one ; but, but, I have no means to 
pay one,” and bursting into heart-agonizing cries she 
bitterly exclaimed : “ What shall I do, what shall I do ? 
I have three children, all little ones, and nothing to help 


238 


LEAVES FROM A 


me to provide for them, but this paper-stand. My rent 
is due : the landlord says he will wait no longer : 
where shall I go, what shall I do ? I have been up all 
night, with hardly any thing to eat, watching little 
Rosa, and sewing a little as I could for the other chil- 
dren. And if it were not for these men,” pointing to 
the carmen, “ who take care of my paper-stand, I don’t 
know what I should have done.” 

“ But, madam, you must by all means have a physi- 
cian, there must be a number of medical men residing 
near you, any one of whom would gladly wait upon 
your sick child.” 

“We had, sir, a family doctor, but he is dead now; 
and I sent for one near by, who came once and then 
said he must have his pay; and as I had nothing to pay 
with, he came no more.” 

“We,” said one of the carmen, speaking for the rest, 
“ have told her to get a doctor — any one she liked best — 
and we would pay him ; but she always says, 1 Oh, 
you have done so much, and you are all poor, and 
have families to provide for,’ and so there the matter 
stands.” 

“ Madam, here is my card. If I can be of any service 
to you or your sick child I shall be very happy to render 
it.” 

“Thank you, sir,” was her modest reply; and, reading 
my card, she exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden 
thought, “ You attended Mrs. 0. in A street, just before 
she died.” 

I nodded assent (it was a recent consultation case). 

“ I thought you was a doctor,” said the first carman. 
“ Now can’t you go with Mary, sir? she lives only a little 


physician’s journal. 239 

way off, just up there,” pointing with his finger in the 
direction. 

“ I will, with pleasure, if she will lead the way.” 

It was now nearly noonday, and the sun, in almost 
meridian splendor and power, shot forth his scorching 
rays upon poor pedestrians with terrific force. And the 
stench from the filthy streets as we wended our way 
along, together with the intense heat, was any thing but 
agreeable. 

We soon entered the house ; it was a high tenement 
building, where some thirty families resided. Up, up, 
we went, one flight of stairs after another, passing in 
our ascent squads of women of all nations, whose bab- 
bling tongues proclaimed their origin and country ; 
children, dirty, ragged, and squalling, some with not 
much more than fig-leaf covering. Pedlers, coal-car- 
riers, together with half-grown boys with small bundles 
of wood for the use of the various families, constituted 
some of the sights noticed in this babel of a house. 
Clambering over this medley of live-stock, the aptness 
of the remark of the carman was apparent — “not much 
chance for poor folks, nowadays,” etc. 

We entered one of those apartments which we see so 
frequently designated on the bills, “ a room and bed - 
room,” and there lay little Rosa, the sick one. An 
affecting sight, surely. She lay on an old chintz-covered 
sofa, pale, panting, and hectic. Her little brother sat 
close to her, looking upon her face, sad and innocent. 
Her older sister was fanning her, and was the only 
nurse in her mother's absence. Rosa was seven years 
old. She looked pure, innocent, and bright. 

I felt her pulse, it was excessively low. Her tongue 


240 


LEAVES FROM A 


was dark, dry, and cracked. She had typhus fever in 
its worst form, and death had evidently marked her for 
his own. 

“Your child is very low, madam, almost beyond re- 
covery, if not altogether so. But I will do my best.” 

Writing a prescription and giving the necessary di- 
rections, I left. 

“ Wife,” said I, as we sat at tea, “ will you go with 
me to a new patient ? I think you will be much in- 
terested in a little angel-creature, soon, I fear, to die. 
She is but seven years old, but very intelligent.” 

We were soon on our way. And having ascended 
the fifth flight , once more we sat by the side of little 
Rosa. 

Rosa I saw was no better, but seemed sinking. Her 
clear-blue eye beamed with precocious intelligence, and 
her sweet, winning countenance declared her childish 
loveliness; while her sane conversation (she often seemed 
lost mentally by reason of her sickness^ had all that 
sharp and worldly-wise experience poverty and neces- 
sity often give to the youth of a great city. 

“ You have a husband ?” said my wife to Rosa’s 
mother. 

“ Yes, madam, I have.” 

“Where is he ?” 

“ In California.” 

“ How long has he been there ?” 

“ Three years.” 

“ You are an English lady, are you not ?” 

“ I am.” 

“ How long have you been in this country ?” 

“ Ten years, madam.” 


physician’s journal. 241 

“How long since you have heard from your hus- 
band ?” 

“ Two years.” 

“ And you have provided for your children all of this 
time ?” 

“ Yes, madam, by my little paper-stand chiefly, family 
washing, and plain sewing.” 

During this conversation Rosa’s eye flashed with in- 
tense interest, and then she seemed as in a reverie, 
wandering in the distant future of hope and anticipa- 
tion. Then calling her brother and sister, she cried 
out — 

“ Is father come yet ? How long he stays ! I am tired 
waiting for him.” Then smilingly, with a toss of her 
head, she broke forth, “ When he does come, we shan’t 
stay here, shall we, mother ?” Then seeing her mother’s 
grief, she said, “ Don’t cry, mother dear. Oh, I was just 
now thinking, dreaming I suppose, that my dear, dear 
father had come home, and we had moved away, far 
away in the beautiful country, where were beautiful 
flowers, the nice green grass, and shade-trees. I thought 
I heard the birds sing ; and every thing looked so nice, 
that I wanted to stay there al ways ; but I awoke, and it 
was only a dream. Oh, I am so tired, and father has not 
come ! Oh, when will he come ? I think I shall die be- 
fore he gets here. When, oh when will he come? 
Mother, mother,” said Rosa, “ I don’t blame Mr. C. for 
not giving me the sacrament when I went to the com- 
munion-rail that Sabbath, the last one I was at church. 
He thought I was a little girl and did not know its 
meaning. But I did, mother, know all about it. Jesus 
died for all men, and for me, and that was the type of it. 

11 


242 


LEAVES FROM A 


But it is all right ; Pm going where dear old grand- 
mother has gone — where there is no poverty, sickness, 
or death.” 

Then turning around and beholding me and my wife, 
she looked surprised. 

“ How are you, Rosa, this evening ?” I inquired. 

“ Pm very sick, sir. Pm afraid I won’t see father, 
he is so long in coming. I wish he was here. When 
will he come ?” 

Life and death with Rosa seemed balancing in the 
scales, each one by turns almost turning the beam. 
And this for several days. The weather being intensely 
warm (July just coming in), Rosa suffered all its severe 
oppression. 

The ever-memorable Fourth of July came, with its 
noise, dust, heat, and patriotism. I thought I must see 
little Rosa. Ten o’clock a. m., — bang ! whiz ! pop ! is 
heard everywhere, and away I go to my little suf- 
ferer in the fifth story. Arriving at the door, a crowd 
was gathered around it ; people were running to and 
fro, while the cry, “Run for a doctor !” I could hear 
from numerous voices, mingled with, “ Here is one !” re- 
ferring to myself, as I approached. Elbowing my way 
through the crowd, I could hear from different voices 
parts of different sentences, such as, “widow’s boy 
killed,” “ sick child,” “ poor woman,” “ paper-stand,” 
“accident,” “eyes blown out,” etp., etc. 

Pushing up stairs, I soon saw the cause of all the ex- 
citement. There lay little Frank, the poor widow’s 
youngest child, on the floor, screaming most terribly, in 
the profoundest agony, while his mother, with other 
women, were bathing his head and face with camphor- 


physician's journal. 213 

water, and every other imaginable remedial agent they 
had at hand. 

“ 0 Doctor !” said his mother, “ I am so glad to see 
you ! Do examine little Frank and see how his eyes 
are.” 

I took him up and placed him on his back on the sofa, 
examined minutely his head, face, and eyes, and found 
he had lost the sight of both eyes, perhaps forever. Dur- 
ing the examination a breathless silence prevailed, the 
women and the mother watching my every movement. 
And when I had made repeated examinations and tests 
to determine if all sight was gone, Mary rushed up to 
me, exclaiming — 

“ Is he blind, Doctor ? Has he lost his sight ? Can 
he ever see again ?” 

I evaded her questions, but to no purpose. Nothing 
but the truth in its best or worst form would meet her 
terrible earnestness. 

“ Madam, I am afraid Frank has lost his sight.” 

“ 0 my God !” she exclaimed, and fell, like a slaugh- 
tered ox, on the floor. 

We removed her, and by the application of stimulants 
and restoratives she revived. And there lay the three 
— mother, Rosa, and little Frank — in different corners of 
the room, all in extreme suffering. When she became 
conscious once more, she gazed on all around, and in a 
low whisper said, “ Where are my children ?” and then, 
without waiting for an answer, buried her face in the 
lap of the lady who was nearest her. She now crawled, 
almost literally on her hands and knees, up to where 
the boy lay, and passionately kissing him, said, in a 
partially suppressed voice — 


244 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Oh, my poor, dear, dear Frank ! what will become 
of you and your mother and two sisters ? Poverty, sick- 
ness, and now accident, worst of all, have come upon us. 
Mystery, cross providences, every thing dark is show- 
ered upon us. We .are drinking the last dregs of human 
misery. There is nothing now left us but the alms- 
house and the Potters-field. Would we were all in the 
quiet grave, where rest from all life’s ills would be 
ours !” 

Just then footsteps and voices were heard on the 
stairs, and presently in rushed the rough but kind- 
hearted carmen and their wives. They all, men and 
women, rushed up to her, and gathering around her, 
commingled their tears and grief-sobs together. It was 
a moment of agony ; for when strong men are brought 
to tears, the cause must be deep and all-pervading. 
Some little time elapsed before a word was uttered. 
The men seemed as much distressed as the women. 
Pulling forth a little wallet, one of them said — 

“ Here, Mary, is your rent, and five dollars besides ; 
you will need it all, and when it is spent, don’t fear, we 
will get you more.” 

Mary’s thanks were expressed in the eloquence of 
overflowing tears. 

u And,” said a kind Episcopalian lady, an angel of 
mercy whose time was almost all occupied in deeds of 
charity, “ our society will help you in addition. So the 
barrel of meal and the cruise of oil, the widow’s portion, 
I trust, will not fail altogether.” 

I immediately sent for a surgeon, with whose help 
Frank’s eyes were dressed. And after a most careful 
examination by him, little Frank "was pronounced stone- 


physician’s journal. 


245 


blind, as the unlettered term it. He was the poor wid- 
ow’s blind boy. 

One week has now elapsed since the accident to little 
Frank, and, strange to say, he seems merry as a bird, 
but little Rosa is nearly to the end of life’s journey ; all 
hope of her restoration must be abandoned. She seems 
at times conscious of her approaching end, and inquires 
about Frank. At her request he gets up to her bed, and 
feels of her face and hair, puts his little arms around 
her neck and kisses her. The scene is truly affecting. 

The other day Frank and his sister, in presence of 
Rosa, sang with wonderful effect a little song, which 
drew tears from several of the neighbors who had come 
in to sympathize with the family in their sorrows. They 
called it “ The Blind Boy’s Lament.” The words were — 

“ They say that the earth is most lovely and fair, 

Bedecked with the flowers God hath placed there”— 

each verse winding up with “ I’m blind ; oh, I’m blind !” 

The fourteenth of July Rosa breathed her last. The 
night previous to her death, while lying with her mother, 
she threw her thin arms around her mother’s neck, and 
said, with all of a child’s simplicity, “ You won’t cry 
when I am dead, will you, mother ? How long will I lie 
in the grave before I see you and grandmother again ? 
They say children become angels. Oh, if I should be 
one, I will come and visit you. Yes, mother, I will.” 

The last words she uttered, her mother said, were — 
“ He is so long in coming, I am afraid I will die before 
he comes.” 

They raised her up. She kissed them all her farewell, 
and pointing upward, smilingly whispered part of a sen- 


24G 


LEAVES FROM A 


tence, “ They have c-o-me,” and breathed her last. And 
there she lay, like an angel-child asleep. 

She lies now in Greenwood Cemetery among the chil- 
dren, mourned over and wept for by children of the Sab- 
bath-school she loved to attend when life and health 
permitted. I always remember it, for on the little grassy 
mound next to her grave lies a little lamb, always to be 
seen, whether amid the summer’s heat or the winter 
storms, the beautiful spring flowers, or the fading”, fall- 
ing leaves of autumn. 

The last time I visited her alive, she had the playthings 
and gifts presented her by her Sabbath-school teacher 
and others spread out before her on the bed. She gave 
to little Frank a locket with her father’s likeness in it, 
saying, “ Brother dear, you cannot see his face, but you 
can feel it, and know Sister Rosa gave it to you. Be a 
good boy, and love and obey mother.” 

All her other things she gave to Ellen, her elder sister, 
except a little Bible which her teacher had given her. 
This she said she wished sent to the Sabbath-school, to 
be given to the best girl of her class. “ Doctor,” said 
she, “ will you write a note for my teacher about it ? 
She will be here this afternoon.” 

“ What shall I write, Rosa ?” 

“ Oh, you know best.” 

“ But I want you to tell me.” 

“ Well, I want this Bible given to any one of my 
classmates who shall learn most verses, and be the best 
girl in the class.” 

Just at this juncture her teacher entered the room, 
and imprinting- a warm kiss on Rosa’s pale cheek, sat 
down and wept profusely. “Here is a note,” I said. 


physician’s journal. 


247 


The lady hastily glanced over its contents; and then, 
slowly folding it up, said, “ And have you no word to 
send to the children generally of our school ?” 

“ Tell them,” she said, “ not to forget little Rosa ; to 
come and sing at my funeral, and go to my grave. Tell 
them little Rosa has gone to be with holy angels, where 
no poverty and sin will ever come. Tell them not to 
grieve their mothers as I have, and don’t let them for- 
get the poor children who have no parents, or home, or 
friends.” 

The effect of such a message from such a child upon 
the susceptible minds of a large company of children 
and youth must have been great indeed. Her mother, 
who had been silently weeping all this time, said, “ But, 
Rosa dear, have you nothing to leave your mother ?” 

“ Mother,” said Rosa, “ they will curl my hair when 
they dress me in my grave-clothes. They did so with 
Matty Willson when she died. When I am dressed in 
my grave-clothes, cut one of my locks off ; and that is 
my gift for you, dear mother.” 

After Rosa’s death, friends had interested themselves 
in Mary’s case ; placed little Frank in the Blind Asy- 
lum, and obtained a home for Ellen in the family of a 
kind lady ; and thus Mary now had only to provide for 
her own wants. But, by over-exertion and the terrible 
ordeal she had passed through, her health had given 
way, and all the symptoms of decline presented them- 
selves. 

Mary seemed to think her case hopeless, and often 
said — 

u I shall soon follow Rosa.” 

One day, while attending her, she seemed restless, 


' 24 $ 


LEAVES FROM A 


and several times wept in my presence. I saw there 
was something on her mind, and said — 

11 Mary, have you any thing you wish to say to me ?” 

“ I want you to know my history,” she replied, “ lest 
I should die, and there be no one to inform my friends, 
or make known who my children are. 

And this was the history in substance : 

She was born in Liverpool, England, the youngest of 
three girls, with four brothers. Her father and brothers, 
except the youngest, were merchants, and doing well. 
She was the idol of all, and was happy until her seven- 
teenth year. A match for her was proposed, but she 
loved another, the son of the head of a rival mercantile 
house, the families even carrying out their mutual hatred 
to the fullest extent. 

Here was a struggle between duty and love. The 
family favorite, James, Mary respected, but could not 
love. He was tall, handsome, of good family, with 
prospective wealth, as his father, aged and infirm, must 
soon retire from active business life, and leave his son 
the only heir to his business, wealth, and name. But 
what was all this to a young, buoyant girl, who had al- 
ways had her own way, and who loved another ? Re- 
monstrance, intimidation, bribes, and the interdiction of 
interviews with her chosen one, but increased her affec- 
tion. And Rufus, her adored lover, was the dearer to 
her the more they slandered him or opposed her. Not 
that they could deny his beauty of face and form, or 
that he was not every way worthy of her. But he was 
young, only twenty years old, and was one of many 
sons whose portion and means must be inferior and 
limited ; and, more than all, he was one of the members 


PHYSICIANS JOURNAL. 


249 


of a hated family to not one of whom her family had ex- 
changed the common civilities of life for years, though 
crossing each other's paths daily. 

All their interviews were stolen, secret, and of short 
duration. And although Mary often felt she was doing 
wrong in thus disobeying parental commands, and fre- 
quently resolved to break off all intercourse with her 
lover, she knew not why she did not put her resolves to 
the test. Matters went on this way for a whole year, 
entertaining, by force almost, the attentions of James 
publicly, who never could gain her consent to marry 
him ; and secretly meeting her true lover, pledg- 
ing him in return for his affection her unalterable de- 
votion. 

She at last resolved to cut the Gordian knot by dis- 
missing James ; and as she could not marry Rufus, she 
resolved never to see him again, when once she had an- 
nounced to him her determination. 

As the family were all of them to go on a pleasure 
excursion, she excused herself from joining them on the 
plea of sickness. 

When alone, she dispatched a trusty servant-man, 
one who had served her in a similar way before, to her 
lover, inviting him to come to her ; and she repaired to 
the garden to await his arrival. 

He soon sat by her side. But she was silent and 
sad. 

“Rufus, we must part," was her first utterance. 
“ Barriers of Alpine heights are between us. Love 
points to you, but duty and obedience forbid^our union.” 
And without daring to open the gurgling fountain of 
her pent-up feelings wider, she arose hastily, and was 
11 * 


250 


LEAVES FROM A 


about bidding him a last farewell, when he seized her 
arm, saying — 

“ Do not leave me, dearest, I beseech you ; stay even 
if we must part, and it may be kind Providence may 
yet open the pathway of life before us/’ He drew her 
nearer to him. How could she resist a last request? 
“ Mary,” said he, “ I have means, friends, and youth to 
provide for and defend you. You are now old enough 
to decide, if right, for yourself. Let us fly, when the 
holy ties of Hymen are consummated, to America. There 
fortune, happiness, and quiet will be ours. Time will 
mitigate parental and fraternal hatred, and as it has 
been with others, so will it be with us, absence and dis- 
tance will bury their resentments, and we may return 
welcomed and loved, or thought of, as absent children 
always are, with deeper affection. We are young — 
the world is wide — we never will be happy apart, and 
while we may, let us fly to where love and peace may 
be found.” 

'-Mary’s reply was a flood of tears ; but, summoning 
all her energy, she tore away from him, bidding him 
farewell forever. Rufus withdrew, and next morning a 
note was handed Mary, which read as follows : 

“ Dear Mary : “ Square. 

“ Farewell. By the time this reaches you I shall 
be on board of the ship that bears me away from her 
I love and Old England, forever. I cannot bear to see 
you another’s. The fates forbid our union ; and as we 
must part, I hope in foreign lands to bury my grief and 
memories. Adieu, dearest Mary, forever. Think of me 
when far away . 11 


physician’s journal. 251 

Mary had taken the precaution io enter her room to 
read his note. And when she realized its full meaning, 
she fell to the floor senseless. How long she remained 
insensible she knew not ; but when consciousness re- 
turned, she immediately prepared to repair to the ship. 
Rufus was probably now on board. In disguise, as she 
thought, she made her way to the vessel, and was soon 
in presence of her lover. Her only object was to bid him 
a last adieu ; but woman’s love is sometimes stronger 
than her prudence, and there and then she consented to 
accompany him to America. In his presence she forgot 
all her other ties. 

They soon were united by a clergyman, and that day 
left the “ white shores” of Old England. Mary’s feelings 
may be imagined, as she stood on deck leaning on the 
arm of Rufus, looking for the last time on the fading 
shores of a land where her father and mother, sisters 
and brothers w^ere — she an “ exile,” a “ fugitive,” a dis- 
obedient child, going she knew not where, with the great 
distant future and the wide, wide world before her. The 
common cup of a common humanity, joy and sorrow, was 
pressed to her lips, and she must drink it henceforth to 
its very dregs. 

Surprise and consternation seized both families as 
their suspicions were slowly confirmed of the fact of 
flight. And to complicate matters still more, Mary’s 
parents had promised James the hand of Mary, with a 
quasi acknowledgment from herself of the influence of 
parental authority. To this end many arrangements 
and expenditures had been made, for a brief period pre- 
viously. Mary, half frenzied, had let them do and ar- 
range matters as they pleased, not knowing or caring 


252 


LEAVES FROM A 


what was done. Thus, not only had she gone they knew 
not where, but she had also prevented the consummation 
of their dearest hopes. 

The families of the two fugitives were plunged in the 
deepest distress. They knew nothing of their departure, 
nor where they had gone, which, added to existing em- 
barrassments, made them inconsolable. Mary’s parents 
blamed themselves for their bad management in the 
affair, in forcing her to consent to a holy union with one 
she loved not. They chided each other for not keeping 
strict watch and guard over her ; and when the house- 
man revealed the fact that Rufus had been there the day 
previous to the night of her departure, he was dismissed 
at once for not giving due information. 

The ship was now in mid-ocean, breasting the billows, 
and Mary and her husband both began seriously to think 
of the future. Rufus had gathered up some five hundred 
pounds, in good Bank of England money. With this and 
his knowledge of business, and Mary by his side, he 
doubted not his ability to cope with life’s realities. 

The tenth day out a storm arose. It raged fearfully 
through all that night and the following day. They 
were blown hundreds of miles out of their course. The 
hatches were closed down. The passengers grew weary 
and desponding, and the fate of Jonah stared the fugi- 
tives in the face, as the punishment of disobedience. 
For four days the ship bore up, but on the fifth it sprung 
a-leak. With the utmost effort only could they keep her 
afloat. Men, women, and children even, when weather 
permitted, manned the pumps. And with the smitings 
of conscience (conscience troubles us most in trouble), 
sea-sickness, and extreme physical exertions, they were 


physician’s journal. 


253 


truly wretched. If parents are in sorrow for absent, 
disobedient children, children no less feel their loneliness 
and misery. 

Matters on hoard now were desperate. The captain 
bluntly informed the men that, at the rate she was sink- 
ing, with two of the three pumps disabled, the ship must 
soon founder, and all on board perish, if some friendly 
ship came not to their rescue, — a thing not likely, so far 
were they out of the usual course of American-bound 
craft. This was startling intelligence ; but they must 
prepare for the worst. Every thing bulky and useless 
had already been thrown overboard. True, the storm 
had abated somewhat, but they were in no condition to 
avail themselves of its benefits, and still drifting to lee- 
ward. The ship now became unmanageable ; her masts 
disabled — one of them clean gone ; no canvas — that too 
having been swept away by the fury of the storm. One 
of two chances only was left them. They might be taken 
up by some friendly ship, or they might take to the boats, 
rafts, and spars. They now made ready for either alter- 
native. All hope of the ship was given up ; and while 
all who were able tugged away at their only hope, the 
one unbroken pump, it was only to keep her afloat as 
long as possible. 

The seventh day came, but brought no rescue. And 
while the storm had subsided, the ship was a mere roll- 
ing wreck which floated as the winds directed. She 
now began to settle, and the boats, rafts, and spars 
were at once brought out. The captain gave directions, 
soothed the fears of the ladies and children, and directed 
the number of souls to each boat and raft, and who 
should take the charge. There were four in all. The 


254 


LEAVES FROM A 


captain took charge of one of the boats, and the first 
mate of the other. The second mate and an old expe- 
rienced seaman were directed to man each one a raft, 
which were composed of chairs, settees, and planks from 
the ship, well lashed together with ropes, and buoyed up 
by life-preservers. The captain took the greater part of 
the ladies. 

Now came the parting. A lady might obtain advan- 
tages by separating from those she loved, or perish, if 
perish she must, in the arms of her husband, lover, 
brother, or friend. Mary would not part with Rufus, 
though repeatedly urged to do so. She had risked all ; 
and if death came on him, she thought she was better 
out of the world than in it. First went forth the cap- 
tain’s boat, next the first mate’s, and then were launched 
the two rafts. Mary and Rufus were in the third, and 
under the charge of the second mate. Rufus, in the 
hurry, forgot his little tin canister, where his money was 
deposited. He could not go back for it. He might never 
need it, and life was sweeter than all else. The boats 
and rafts pushed off as speedily as possible, through fear 
of engulfment when the ship went down. They had just 
escaped in time. In one half-hour she reeled unsteadily, 
pitched fore and aft, as the sailors say, and went down 
boom foremost. The mournful howl of a poor dog was 
all that was heard. It was the only living thing on 
board, tied to the side of the ship, and forgotten in the 
uproar. Its owner wept for his dog, though not a tear 
was shed by him for any one besides. Such is human 
sentiment. 

“ It was now,” said Mary, “ four o’clock in the after- 
noon. We kept close together until night and darkness 


physician's journal. 255 

covered us. We parted before morning’, and each alone 
now felt our terrible fate and isolation. 

“ Wet, cold, and despairing, we husbanded our 
strength, and drifted whither we might. This was an 
hour for reflection, yet I uttered no complaint. I ex- 
pected to be drowned. I had chosen my destiny, and 
why should I attempt to change it ? Little was eaten 
that day — few words were spoken. Night came, but no 
sign of rescue. The second night was worse than the 
first : there was not the excitement of hoisting signals, 
arranging our stores, and placing the raft in the best 
condition. Spirituous drinks were better relished than 
even necessary food. Oh, the weary hours of that 
night I Morning came, and no sail to be seen. The 
day wore on. Approaching night began to throw its 
shadows over us, who were now more than ever hope- 
less and sad. Just then a sail was seen in the dis- 
tance, to the far-off west ; but night would soon close 
in, and remove all hope of immediate rescue. But we 
might get nearer to her, so as to be seen in the morn- 
ing, and possibly be seen ere the stars shone out. Sum- 
moning all our energies — the demon of despair strength- 
ening the oarsman’s arms rather than the sweet angel 
of hope — we madly rushed on, but in vain ! We saw 
the ship’s hull close to sea and sky, bearing away fur- 
ther from us. Hope died within us, and the third night 
covered us with its terrors. The sun went down red 
and fiery, the harbinger of a storm. The wind changed 
in the night, and signs of squalls and wind-gusts 
threatened us. The sea portended severe and more un- 
steady weather. 

“ During that dark and fearful night we gave up all 


256 


LEAVES FROM A 


hope, and taking farewell of each other, and committing 
to the deep the best evidences of future recognition of 
us in such coverings as we best could find, we resigned 
ourselves to sure and coming fate. I had written my 
adieu to my dear mother ere I left Old England, but 
dared not send it lest detection might ensue. This I 
put in an old flint-glass bottle, sealed it up the best I 
could, and threw it, where I expected to be very soon 
myself, in ‘ the deep, deep sea.’ In the night a sweet 
little child, seven months old, and its mother, died from 
exposure, and were thrown into the sea. The sea broke 
over us repeatedly during the night. 

“ 1 We never shall see morning,’ said our heroic mate. 

“ But we did, and deliverance was at hand. Moments 
seemed hours, and hours days on that terrific night. As 
we saw the first gray dawn of the coming morning, our 
hearts danced for joy. The sun began to throw his 
light over us, and we Worshipped it almost. And now, 
in the distance, a ship is seen, bearing down upon us. 
Can shn have seen us ? and is she coming to our rescue ? 
We all gave a shout, — feeble it might be, but I assure 
you it was the best and loudest we were capable of. 
But she changed her course. All but the sailors sent 
forth a wail of despair. Their practised eyes Icnew by 
her movements they had seen us. One hour more and 
we were on board, but what heart-palpitations, fears, 
and sorrowful thoughts had we felt during that brief 
hour ! But now, all was safe. In fourteen days we were 
in the bay of New York. 

“ New scenes now opened before us. We were young, 
and happy in each other’s society. And if severe toil 
and wasting exertion were our lot, we could breast 


physician’s journal. 257 

them all, as others had done before us. Rufus had ob- 
tained the higher prizes and recommendations for math- 
ematical and engineering draughting at school. To 
this branch of business, after repeated failures in ob- 
taining mercantile employment, he turned his attention. 
He succeeded admirably. But upon the birth of Rosa, 
one of your American monetary revulsions took place. 
After laboring on through many discouragements, and 
with want staring us in the face, his habits changed, 
and one night he came home, for the first time, beastly 
intoxicated. That was my first overwhelming sorrow. 
In six months afterwards I consented, after repeated so- 
licitations, for him to go to California. I have heard but 
seldom from him since. 

“My sorrows are told. Here is the record of my 
maiden name, birth, and marriage, with all the particu- 
lars of my children. Preserve it carefully. It may yet 
do them service. My fate is fixed and irrevocable.” 

Mary’s malady, for it proved to be, upon repeated ex- 
aminations, carcinoma uteri , required an operation. She 
was removed to the hospital — the best we could do for 
her. She might survive it, but her chances were few. 
Die she must, as she was. It was only a question of 
time. Her patience and resignation objected to no ar- 
rangement. She went through the operation without a 
groan or any complaint, but died in three weeks after- 
wards. Neither mind nor body could be rallied. She 
was buried near by the side of little Rosa, at her re- 
quest, by the hands of the rough but honest carmen, 
their wives and children being the chief mourners. 

I sent her papers to their destination, but have heard 
nothing of them since. 


258 


LEAVES FROM A 


But the scene of her death remains indelibly fixed on 
my memory. Her two children were brought to her 
bedside by her kind friend, the Episcopalian lady. 

“ Ellen,” said Mary, “ take care of Frank.” 

Poor Ellen’s reply was convulsive sobs. 

“ Kiss me, my child,” she said, faintly. 

Ellen embraced her on her low cot, and rent the very 
room with her cries. It was the irruption of a volcanic 
sorrow. 

“ Frank dear, come feel mother’s face once more.” 

Poor Frank slowly crawled up to his mother. Putting 
her thin, almost powerless, arms around his neck, she 
kissed him, then closed her eyes and muttered something 
we heard not. Frank felt of her face, laid his head on 
her shoulders, and childishly said — 

“ Poor mother ! Sick mother 1” 

She breathed her last with her two children on either 
side of her. 



physician’s jouknal. 


259 


THE EMIGRANT WIDOW. 



f HERE is,” said the Poet of Humanity, “ an es- 
pecial providence in the fall of a sparrow.” 

Our greatest evils are not seldom the har- 
bingers, sometimes even the occasions, of our 
greatest successes. Not unfrequently is it true that 
when we fall, then we rise — when we seem to die, then 
in truth we live. 

Who has not seen failure in business the beginning 
and the measure of a future success, the turning-point 
for another line of life, or the emerging of new powers 
in the soul, and their employment in a new sphere of 
action ? 

The tearful entreaties of Washington’s mother spoiled 
a promising young naval Lieutenant — but the}' made the 
world’s great General. The setting to “ draw,” at once, 
of a few whole boxes of tea in that huge teapot, Boston 
harbor, led to the quaffing in succession by an entire na- 
tion, first, of the red wine of Revolution, and, finally, of 
the nectar of Peace and Liberty. 

Sumter fell : but the balls that crashed upon its 
granite wall welded a chain of steel, uniting in one the 
hearts of twenty millions of people. 

The “ Marseilles Hymn” — product of the brain of an 
obscure Frenchman — sounded forth from amid the Alps, 


260 


LEAVES FROM A 


led France to become the conqueror of herself, in prepa- 
ration for her conquest of the world. 

The mere nod of the head of Lacoste, Napoleon’s peas- 
ant-guide, led, on a day ever memorable, to the complete 
deranging of the great leader’s plan ; — the fall and de- 
struction, in consequence of that misleading signal, of 
two squadrons of the Imperial Guard in an unsuspected 
ravine, lost to the French conqueror the battle of W ater- 
loo, dethroned the ideal tyrant of the masses, reared new 
dynasties, and changed — king-wise and in its political 
geography — the whole face of Europe ! 

Thus, as great things may, through unforeseen con- 
tingencies, become insignificant, so, by the like but con- 
trary reversal, the smallest things may become things 
of greatest magnitude and moment. 

If “ from the sublime to the ridiculous” be, as we are 
so often reminded, but “ a step ,” of course this is equally 
true in the return direction. The vast and apparently 
unsustained orbs of our planetary system are held in 
their places by action of precisely the same force which 
brings the child’s playing-ball to the ground. 

So is it in the incidents and history of daily human 
life. 

Some mere accident will develop a latent tendency or 
power, and lead to its fruitage of glory or shame. The 
veriest trifle, apparently, may turn the current of a 
whole life ; nay, it may change to the human soul the 
very aspect of nature, and in appearance reverse the 
order of human destiny. A removal, a death, a birth in 
a family, brings in its train, to the few or the many 
affected by it, either new burdens of misery, or, it may 
be, new fountains of joy — either poverty or riches — 


physician’s journal. 261 

either advancement or declension — and that to the third 
or fourth generation. 

The vicissitudes of life, at least in some of their as- 
pects, find a forcible illustration in the experience of a 
certain poor Irish widow and emigrant, the subject of 
our present sketch. 

Who that has been reared from youth, and in man- 
hood or womanhood has continued to reside, within the 
same community, and among the same familiar and 
long-endeared scenes, can realize truly the circum- 
stances and changes of emigration, especially when that 
remove is one made once for all, and with no prospect 
of return, across the broad sweep of the blue, inexor-' 
able ocean — from the “ Old World,” the world of settled 
ties and surroundings, to a “ New World,” which, to the 
wanderer, must be, at best, but a world of strangers 
and of uncertainties ? Preparatory to that change 
comes the sale and alienation of much that was so long 
one's own ; of even the heirlooms hallowed by remem- 
brances of the family through the generations now 
passed away, and of the purchase of the toil and sweat 
of many years now departed. Then there come heart- 
rending partings, the leave-takings, perhaps of parents 
“ well stricken in years,” and never to be beheld again, — 
perhaps of brothers and sisters, and of course of the 
many neighbors who remain behind : then the receding 
from the view, and forever, of the shores of one's dear 
native land, and the last strained gaze to catch a view 
of its hill-sides and cliffs, as they sink away finally be- 
neath the horizon, leaving only in their place the cold, 
unbroken rim of the now limitless ocean ; and the 
waking to a consciousness that now a narrow ship's 


262 


LEAVES FROM A 


deck and the continual surging of waves appear to be 
well-nigh all of the world that is left to us : anon, the 
storm at sea, with its fearful fury by day, and its terrors 
far greater — because then the dangers are not seen, and 
are left to the wild painting of fancy — by night : then, 
at last, the arrival in the strange but wished-for land, 
the new and unknown faces everywhere about us, the 
host of mental anxieties, the circumstances so strangely 
unlike all in our previous experience, the new adapta- 
tions that must be made of one’s energies and habits 
to meet life in a new form. Who but the actual partici- 
pant can realize all this, and so much more that is as 
trying -as this, in the experience of the emigrant to a 
distant country, and, as is for a few generations now so 
common a circumstance, from one hemisphere to an- 
other ? 

A participant in as much of this varied experience as 
commonly falls to the lot of any one person was Mrs. 
M , upon whose life and prospects a frightful acci- 

dent had fallen like a millstone. 

Widow M , the wife of a respectable middle-class 

farmer, in Ireland, made a widow in one of those fights 
of factions which have too often disgraced that beauti- 
ful country, sold thereupon all such of her effects as she 
could not conveniently take with her, and, in company 
with her three children, a boy and two girls, made the 
New World her home. The struggle of a lone woman 
in a large city, with children to care for, rent to pay, 
food and clothing to obtain, is necessarily a hard one. 
Truly the world’s martyrs are the honest poor ; but 
above all, the widows, the orphans, the virtuous serving 
and sewing girls, whose life may be almost summed up 


physician’s journal. 263 

in one little line of Hood’s, the English poet — that is, in 
the single word of which it is composed — 

** Work — work — work !” 

The names of these toilers stand not on the rolls of 
Sanitary Committees, nor do they figure on the lists of 
benevolent subscriptions, of sick visitation meetings, 
church gatherings for missions, or in connection with 
other beneficent or pious purposes. They themselves 
are likely to be seen walking on Broadway ; but it is 
when the belles and beaux of the city are asleep, when 
at early dawn they are wending their way to their 
scattered, often out-of-the-way places, of daily toil ; or 
they are up, I had almost said with — I should rather say, 
ivithout the lark ; for that free and joyous harbinger of 
morning does not visit their tenement-crowded streets 
or reeking alleys, but sings on the fresh, dewy hill-side, 
away in the beautiful country. At all events, they are 
up as early as the lark, but to be caged in their own ill- 
ventilated rooms, plying the needle, driving the sewing- 
machine, or attending to the inevitable round of house- 
hold affairs. 

Such was the style and routine of life upon which the 
emigrant widow, not long after her arrival, found her- 
self fully entered. Day by day her little treasure went 
into the coffers of the rent-agent, the grocer, and the 
druggist, until she saw slipping away between her thin 
fingers her last dollar, with as yet no certain and ade- 
quate means of replacing it. Then she took her chil- 
dren from school, and with them entered a large factory 
at some distance from her home, to earn the necessaries 
of life. Twelve hours each day must she there sweat 


264 


LEAVES FROM A 


and toil through the summer’s heat, and, with her chil- 
dren — for they could be at the best but thinly clad — 
shiver and toil through the winter’s freezing cold. Up 
in the morning with the first break of day, and up at 
night until the small hours almost touched the morning 
again— for, besides her stated hours of toil, she must 
cook and wash, and in many ways keep her little brood 
sheltered from the hardships of life beneath her pro- 
tecting wings — this hard-toiling woman had left for 
herself, as the rule, barely four hours nightly for sleep. 

In something like this form, if she had kept one, must 
the diary of one of her monotonous days have read : 

11 Five o'clock in the morning. — Up, get breakfast, and 
mend the children’s clothes, while they — poor things ! — 
are asleep. 

“ Seven o'clock . — Already at the factory, and just about 
to begin work, with four small pieces of dry bread for 
myself and three apiece for the children, as our only 
dinner. 

Seven p. m. — Having worked until this time, with but 
a short intermission for our lunch near midday, we are 
released, and go home, all hungry, tired, and sleepy. I 
wonder how the children endure it. They almost fall 
asleep going to and coming from their daily tasks. 
Tired as I am to-night, I had, as often before, to carry 
little Johnny. Then comes supper. Too often I have to 
wake the children to eat it. 

“ Nine o'clock . — The children are all in bed and asleep, 
forgetful now of the day’s work and their own wants. 
Now, as I do not need to bake or to wash to-night, I can 
iron the clothes I washed last, and do something more at 


physician’s journal. 265 

mending the torn shoes and worn-out bonnets ; and, if I 
could, do some repairing of Johnny’s coat and cap. 

“ One o'clock a. m. — The coat and cap are not reached, 
but I have too little sleep already ; I must go to bed.” 

This one day, reader, will serve as a true illustration 
of two long years of such days ; save only that on Sun- 
days the week’s round of incessant toil was mercifully 
interrupted ; but then, the widow’s children go to Sab- 
bath-school, and when they can, all go at least once to 
church. And so, with making this one day’s instruction 
serve for all the week, it is still not a day of quiet and 
idleness. And in preparation for it, if there be any need- 
ful washing, ironing, or mending left over from previous 
nights, the mother’s toil-wearied hands must move all 
the more nimbly on Saturday night to make good the 
unfortunate deficiency. 

But, at last, the darkness of this long night of toil be- 
gins to show a faint streak of coming dawn. The cloud 
has its silver lining. “The world,” even of the poor 
emigrant widow, “does move.” A few dollars have 
been accumulated in the Savings Bank. These will 
send her children to school, and, it may be, give all a 
start on the way to prosperity. This is now the 
mother’s hope, her ambition, her prayer. Work on, 
brave hearts ! the sun is rising, the clouds break, the 
gloom disperses, the radiance of a better day dawns 1 
Alas, no ! the casual observer would soon have to say 
it was but the false light that lures the unwary mariner 
upon the rocks, or the ignis fatuus of successful begin- 
nings, fated only to end in disaster. 

For see ! In heaven’s name, what is this before us ? 

12 


266 


LEAVES FROM A 


A woman, caught up from the floor of a factory, held by 
her clothing to the shaft of an enormous wheel, and 
whirled round and round with its rapid motion ! Her 
hair, streaming out loosely, is in part torn from her 
head ! Blood spouts forth from her mouth, and from 
her mangled limbs is spattered on the floor ! And now 
there drop fragments of her flesh, and even of crushed 
bones ! 

It is the widow M , who has been caught up by a 

band, and is thus whirled and mangled with the dizzy 
movement of that murderous shaft. Soon as possible 
the engine is stopped, and every means availed of to 
arrest the movement of the shaft ; its motion is rapidly 
lessened, its axes rub harder within their bearings, and 
nowit stops. Women hasten with aprons torn off, or 
whatever else will serve the purposes of the moment ; 
and with these they first cover the almost nude and 
bleeding form of their sister-worker, and then endeavor 
to stanch the blood, and, with bathing and fanning her 
face, to bring back the almost lost animation. 

Providentially, as it would appear, I was at the time 
very near to the place of this terrible accident, and 
being recognized by one of those who ran out for help 
as a physician, I was, within a few instants after her 
being taken down, by the side of the sufferer. 

But is she dead ? She stirs not, and seems not even 
to breathe. She almost appears now as nothing but a 
crushed and shapeless mass of human flesh. After a 
little, faint reviving moans are heard. Then I examine 
the extent of this frightful accident. And this is the 
summing up : the left arm is torn off— both legs are 
broken — the head is dreadfully cut in several places, 


physician’s journal. 


267 


mostly in front and on the superior portion — the eyes 
closed — the face frightfully disfigured. She may be 
made stone-blind, even if she lives ; but this the future 
only can tell. 

The children of the mangled woman stand around her, 
weeping bitterly, though only the oldest girl appears 
, fully to comprehend her mother’s condition. 

What is to be the result ? A coffin or a sick-bed ? 
What ! imagine a course of medical treatment and the 
possibility of recovery for one so crushed and lacerated 
— for one upon whom death appears already to have 
passed ? Why now disturb the unhappy victim ? Why 
not at least allow her peace, while death finishes its 
work ? Is she not past hope ? But she moans — stirs ! 
She is not dead ! 

At length it is decided to remove her to her home by 
hand ; and this is accomplished by placing her on a 
feather-bed supported by a strong sheet, the corners of 
which are held by four stout men, while a fifth, walking 
alongside, gives support to the centre of the sheet by 
means of a broad pad pressed against it from beneath. 
In this way the sufferer is borne onward, the bearers 
being occasionally relieved in turn by others from among 
the workmen, who have for the time been excused from 
duty in the factory ; while female operatives follow even 
with tearful eyes, and the anxious but hushed proces- 
sion increases in numbers as we move from street to 
street. The children are carried by members of the 
crowd. 

Arrived at her humble apartments, into which, by 
reason of their contracted size, but few can enter, she is 
tenderly laid down ; and tears again steal to the eyes 


268 


LEAVES FROM A 


of the hardy sons and daughters of toil who stand with- 
in sight, when, in order to save the disturbance of re- 
moval, the bed on which she has been borne is laid 
upon her own, and as windows are raised and all super- 
fluous covering removed, to afford air, the mutilated 
form of their fellow-laborer again meets their eyes. 
Those within intently watch every movement ; and 
those who fill the passages and crowd about the door 
are unwilling to leave. 

“ Can she live, Doctor ?” — the question that comes 
from the lips of many — is the question uppermost in the 
minds of hundreds that have witnessed or had rehearsed 
to them the shocking nature of the accident. 

Can she live ? Thou, God, only knowest ! 

Presently the order, “ Make way there !” is heard 
upon the stairs, and other physicians, to whom word 
has been in the mean time sent, arrive, bringing with 
them bandages, splints, and all the other paraphernalia 
of wound-dressing. Warm "water, soap, and sponges 
are brought into requisition, and as the dried or clotted 
blood is removed, the character and extent of the inju- 
ries become more definitely known. Soon the two 
limbs are splintered and dressed, and the least injured 
arm has also received such dressing as is requisite. 
The stump of the severed arm has safely been left to this 
time, for nature had long since stopped the life-current, 
and its active flow was not yet renewed. Now the 
stump also is attended to, the torn arteries are tied, the 
lacerated flesh is pared and adjusted to favor healing, 
and adhesive strips, lint, and bandages complete the 
dressing. All this requires time, and the more frequent 
and uneasy moaning of the patient meanwhile shows 


PHYSICIANS journal. 


269 


that feeling is slowly returning, and that pain, though 
still almost unconsciously, begins to be felt. 

And now more particular attention is given to the 
wounds of the head and face. Is the patient made 
blind ? Not necessarily ; for we find that the eyeballs 
do not appear to be injured, though the eyebrows are 
badly lacerated, and the face also cut and bruised. The 
head is dreadfully cut also ; but, as we had previously 
informed ourselves, the wounds were those of the flesh 
or scalp only — the bones of the cranium were not frac- 
tured or depressed. 

Quickly now fall, one after another, under the sur- 
geon’s scissors, the clippings of long, beautiful, black, 
and glossy hair. The lacerated parts of the scalp, the 
eyebrows, and the face are brought as accurately as 
possible into their true positions, and plasters are put 
on. At length the offices and work of the surgeon are 
complete, and continuing a careful and judicious use of 
mild restoratives, we all await the decision which the 
powers of life may have to give — whether, on the one 
hand, reaction , or, on the other, that the sufferer must 
now pass from earthly hands into those of her Maker. 

And now we ask ourselves — Is she yet conscious ? 
Does she know in any degree what has befallen her ? — 
where she is ? — where are her children ? — that strangers 
are about her, and what they have been doing ? — or 
why there is in her room such a throng of persons ? 

Faintly now, at last, she moves her lips, and more de- 
cidedly than before moves herself. What is her wish ? 
Is she desirous of giving a last farewell to her little 
ones? She whispers two words— mothers’ words— 
words that, in hours of absence or presence, in health or 


270 


LEAVES FROM A 


in sickness, in life or at the portals of death, ever lie 
closest to the true mother's heart— words, the force of 
which God himself feels, and which He utters to his be- 
loved ones — 

“ My children /” 

“ Oh, dear mother 1” Matilda cries out, “ do you really 
live yet ? But what will become of you and of us ?” 

Johnny’s only reply, however, was in sobs, and 
Nancy’s in weeping yet more convulsively than before. 

“ But, Mrs. M , how — oh ! how can you endure all 

this ?” exclaimed a weeping neighbor, a washerwoman. 
The sufferer motioned to have brought to her a crucifix 
that hung on the opposite wall. “ Look at this !” she 
said, faintly. That crucifix she had brought with her 
for more than three thousand miles ; it had been her 
attendant and solace through the storms of the ocean, 
through the subsequent trials of poverty, through her 
bereavement and all the afflictions of her widowed life. 
And it was now to her as her best friend : not, indeed, 
the wood, but the Saviour it figured. 

We all looked reverently on that crucifix. Those who 
were Catholics kissed it. Those that were Protestants 
thought of the one it represented — Christ upon the 
cross — the Saviour of men, groaning, bleeding, dying. 
They thought of His sweat, His agony, His shame, of 
the scorn He endured, the spittings of the contemptuous 
and smitings of the brutal. The occasion, the moment, 
the self-forgetful act and devotion of the suffering wo- 
man, all combined to exercise over the minds of those 
present a deep and overpowering influence. And all, 
together, and almost involuntarily, knelt around the bed 
of the invalid. Again she whispered, “All this I can 


physician’s journal. 271 

suffer for Jesus’ sake : what is it to what He suffered 
for me ?” A prayer, in feeble and tremulous tones, burst 
from the lips of one of the kneelers.. It was a woman’s 
voice. Soon it was lost in the sobs, or even the cries 
and groans, of nearly all present. Strong men were 
bowed there, as reeds before the blast ; and down their 
begrimed faces the trembling tears could have been 
seen coursing their way. Even the surgeons, who are 
proverbially steeled to groans, and petrified against 
ordinary appeals to mere feeling, were now compelled 
to bend. All gave way. For the time, this was truly 
the house of mourning — a valley of sorrow ; but the 
mourning and the sorrow were mingled with thankful- 
ness also, and hope, with earnest convictions, with peni- 
tence, and with a devout submission to the will of the 
All-powerful and All-merciful. 

How pitiful, thought I, as I looked on the scene, are 
the bickerings, the bigotry of sects ! God is the Father 
of us all ; and here, as is fit and becoming, all hearts 
blend involuntarily in one act of devotion — united in 
sympathy, tenderness, love, worship. And how sub- 
limely, too, is the Christian’s triumph over pain and 
affliction illustrated at this moment in the feelings and 
conduct of this poor Catholic widow ! 

Reader, within three months from the day and occa- 
sion which I have just been endeavoring to portray to 

you, Widow M is regularly engaged in service in 

the house of her previous factory-employer, occupied in 
such duties as she can perform with her one saved arm, 
and in spite of occasional rheumatic pains that remind 
her of the past ; the use of her two limbs-^-those pains 


272 


LEAVES FROM A 


excepted — being quite recovered. Her children are at 
school, not only well-dressed and contented, but playful 
'and happy. Friends she now has in abundance ; and 
she even blesses the day on which God sent to her that 
“sore trial,” as she, half-playfully, half-seriously, terms 
the accident by which she so nearly lost her life. 



physician’s journal. 


273 


THE INSANE SECESSIONIST. 



REAT, or very trying circumstances, are always 
the best, and often the only means of develop- 
ing either true greattiess and virtue, or prov- 
ing their utter overthrow, ending in abject 
meanness. Horace describes the just man “ standing 
calm and unmoved in the midst of a falling world and 
a greater than Horace has declared, “ Nothing shall 
separate” the good man from all that is good and 
just. 

Civil war in any country often proves the grave of 
much moral excellence, as it also brings into existence 
and notice many of the loftiest virtues ; and not merely 
in the death-struggle, when brother meets brother in 
deadly strife, but also in the lonely exile. In expatri- 
ation from home and friends, familiar scenes and loved 
faces, but more especially in the loss of fortune and in 
poverty, do the virtues or vices grow luxuriantly. 

Statistics show conclusively that it is not so much 
the really poor who are driven to insanity and people 
mad-houses, but rather those with either abundance or 
competency, who fear they shall become poor and en- 
dure its evils. “ Imaginatioii” in this, as in most other 
human affairs, according to the great Napoleon, “ gov- 
erns the world.” “ Give me neither poverty nor riches,” 
12 * 


274 


LEAVES FEOM A 


said Agur ; — “ poverty, that I be not dishonest ; nor 
riches, that I forget not, and curse God and man.” 

* The extremes of either, vitiate all but good souls, 
who stand unabashed in the presence of kings, and 
quail not amid the sorrows of penury and affliction. 
Poverty, oppression, riches even, “drive men mad,” but 
it is mostly those whose mental equilibrium is always 
oscillating, whose virtue is not of the Roman stamp, 
and especially whose lives are not guided by Christian 
principles. Undoubtedly the vices of men are the most 
prolific causes of insanity ; for a wounded spirit, or an 
overcharged conscience, is hard to bear. It is to ac- 
cumulated sorrow that a stricken conscience becomes 
“ the last feather that breaks the camel’s back.” 

Whether the heading of the following unexaggerated 
statements shall be justified by the two remarkable 
characters, and their contrast, here presented, the reader 
must judge. 

The outline history of the more prominent figure, up 
to the writer’s actual contact with him, is chiefly de- 
rived from the lesser, and, in the world’s view, meaner 
one, but who is, in reality, the superior character. 

Mr. Early — so he called himself, though we always 
surmised the name was assumed, nor could we get from 
his servant a distinct avowal whether it was or was 
not — made his way to the Northern States in the earlier 
upheaval incident to the late rebellion, with his faithful 
and pious servant, Jack. Most of Mr. Early’s means 
were in such condition that they were left behind, to be 
disposed of and the proceeds remitted to him as circum- 
stances required, — being left in the care of a supposed 
trusty agent. 


physician’s journal. 275 

With a large sum of money he started to make the 
tour of the Northern States, and, it might be, Europe ; 
when he would return, as he hoped, to his beloved Souths 
or begin life anew among his countrymen here, or among 
strangers in foreign lands. 

Being a bachelor, he consequently had no wife or 
children to prevent his removal or encumber his travels. 
After journeying through several States, West, North, 
and East, he at last rested in this city, to await the re- 
ceipt of finances and determine his future course. Habits 
of dissipation, begotten in youth, followed him among 
strangers. Gay company, fashionable ladies, the spark- 
ling and witty of both sexes, expensive pleasures, and 
late hours, exhausted his means rapidly ; and the ab- 
sence of remittances, with prospective confiscation by 
either of the contending parties staring him in the face, 
together with the prospect of poverty, and the effect of 
his repeated inebriations, so worked upon his mind, as 
to drive him at last to a terrible insanity. 

It was at this stage of his history I became his physi- 
cian, and learned some of the particulars of his eventful 
career. 

On a bitter cold night, in December, 1863, a large, 
jet-black man violently rang my office-door bell. The 
sound of the bell, but more certainly the strong, gruff 
voice of a man, awoke me, calling my name out lustily 
and most impatiently. Hastily half-dressing myself, I 
appeared at the door, when the giant form of the black 
man stood before me, his hands clenched and raised, his 
eyes rolling in semi-terror, and the perspiration gather- 
ing on and dropping from his broad, coarse face. 

“ God a-massy, Doctor, do come to Massa Early,” he 


276 


LEAVES FROM A 


almost screamed, without waiting for any questions as 
to who he was, or what he wanted at so late an hour. 

“ And who is Massa Early, and what is the matter 
with him ?” I asked impatiently, motioning him to come 
in and shut the cold wintry wind out. 

Either not understanding my effort to close the door, 
or too intent on his errand, he continued : “ Do, for de 
Lord’s sake, come dis minit. De massa lies on de flor 
frofin’ at de mouf ; groanin’ like de lost in perdition ; 
eyes like fire, and den closed up tight; trembles like 
Beltishazzar of old ; done gone, ’cept de good Lord an’ 
Massa Doctor bring help in time of trouble. Oh, de 
poor soul 1 de amortal soul, de precious soul, dat Jesus 
lub an’ die for, what will become of dat ?” and the great 
creature wrung his broad, coarse hands, and rolled his 
eyes upwards, while the perspiration broke out afresh 
from every pore. His face was the very picture of terror 
and despair, mingled with the most devoted affection for 
the object of his love. 

I left him swaying to and fro, half-chanting, half-mur- 
muring his distress, to prepare myself to accompany 
him to the place he came from. 

When I returned to him, he seemed overjoyed at the 
prospect of my going with him, and in childish glee 
laughed aloud, spatted and rubbed his hands, and ex- 
claimed, “ Oh, bress de Lord, I’se so glad ! Kind, good 
Doctor ! Oh, glory, hallelujah !” 

“ Now, you must be pilot,” said I. “ Is it far? and 
is there any other doctor there ?” 

“Not bery far, massa : ’pears de missus of de house 
mus’ hab doctor dar by dis time ; great runnin’ and 
noise, but thought Jack mus’ get one for massa, too. Oh, 


physician's journal. 


27 1 


bress de Lord ! I’se got you to come ; Jack pray mighty 
hard for it — pray all de way to Massa Doctor’s house, 
an’ de good Lord hear poor Jack’s prayer.” 

“ Your name is Jack, is it ?” 

“ Yes, Massa Doctor ; ole massa call me after young 

assa” — he hesitated a moment — “ Early — de massa 
now so near done gone.” 

11 You have been a slave, have you, Jack ?” 

“ Yes, massa, slave to man ; but son of de Lord Je- 
sus, an’ bimeby prince or king, and white as de angels 
in glory.” 

“ And you have come on here with your master ?” 

“ Yes, massa, come on here” — and he continued his 
story by scraps and pieces, back and forth, as the nar- 
rative has already disclosed. 

By the time he had concluded, we had arrived at a 
medium-sized frame-house. I looked up and beheld 
lights in the upper chambers, which Jack beholding, 
cried out : “ Dar he is ; yes, dar, right up dar. Come 
quick, massa, an’ pray de Lord de golden bowl ain’t 
broken at de well, nor de silver cord loosened, till you 
see him, or de good Lord gibs de ransomed soul free 
papers for de kingdom ob glory.” 

We were soon in the presence of two ladies and two 
gentlemen, one of the latter a neighboring apothecary, 
and the sick man. 

The apothecary was in the act of bleeding the man 
for a fit of apoplexy, or epilepsy, he was not himself 
certain which, and the purple current was very slug- 
gishly flowing into its receptacle. I stood a few seconds 
viewing the sick man, while Jack’s eyes were riveted 
alternately on myself and his sick master. 


278 


LEAVES FROM A 


The awful working of the fit could not wholly destroy 
the good appearance of the splendid features of the 
sufferer. His dark, glossy, and curly locks fell in di- 
shevelled masses over a brow as fair, bold, and intellec- 
tual as I ever beheld. His finely-cut mouth, expressive 
of determination and refinement, his large and slightly 
aquiline nose, finely-arched and heavy eyebrows, the 
symmetrical outlines of every feature, though distorted, 
convulsed, and partially covered with froth and blood, 
were distinct and unmistakable to the most casual ob- 
server ; while his tall figure was every way well pro- 
portioned, and his scrupulously neat dress, fashionable 
neck-tie, diamond-pin, and clean white collar, evidenced 
his taste and exceeding neatness. 

“ Tear off his neck-tie 1” I impatiently exclaimed, pro- 
voked at the neglect of the apothecary ; “ and as he 
does not bleed freely, let us try some simpler, and, it 
may be, surer remedies, to break the fit, whatever its 
cause may be.” 

With the grasp of a lion and the -swiftness of an 
eagle, Jack removed the neck bandage, and then, seem- 
ingly holding his breath in suspense, looked up arid 
cried out : “ What next, massa ? Jack do any thing ; 
only say what dat is.” 

Various means vrere now resorted to for the purpose 
of restoring the agonized man to consciousness; and in 
half an hour or so he lay on his bed, his eyes partly 
closed, his clothing mostly off, and he sibilating some 
incoherent words which we strove in vain to compre- 
hend. 

Not so, however, with Jack, or at least he so thought. 
Kneeling by the bedside of his master, he bent his ear 


physician’s journal. 279 

close to his lips, and held to me and every one around 
an imaginary conversation. 

“ Ah ! yes, massa,” he began, “ great trouble ; but 
de Lord help in time of trouble.” 

“ Damned, eh ? No, no, massa, not yet, bress de 
Lord ! Jesus, the great Massa ob all, conquer death, 
hell, and de grave ; out ob de fit, den dar is hope of 
salvation. Demons, eh ? — lost soul ? But, Massa honey, 
’member dis, de Lord-man drive de debels out of de Mag- 
alene, an’ he stronger than earth or hell. De cross, de 
cross, massa, oh ! de cross, de sufferin’, de resurrexin’, 
and de glory. Oh, ’pears He come jus’ now ! Oh, look ! 
look ! look 1” and this poor, sympathizing, devoted child 
of Ham, went off into one of the most pathetic, singu- 
larly-worded, yet Scriptural prayers, in ideas, not forms 
or exact phraseology, that it was ever my duty or privi- 
lege to hear. In spite of his grotesque writhings of 
form, and the use of language often a mere jargon, and 
sometimes spasmodically jerked out or drawled, every 
one present was awed into reverence, and filled with 
strange and impressive emotions by the mental and 
moral power he exerted. The two ladies wept like 
whipped children, and the sterner sex all silently 
brushed away their falling tears. 

Mr. Early, even in the midst of his deep, stertorous 
breathing, occasionally seemed to me to be cognizant of 
the presence of his servant, for he would intermit his 
hard breathing an instant and strive to say something, 
but failed to communicate to him any thing intelligible ; 
and then he would again relapse into his deep uncon- 
sciousness. 

Although it was now some time since Mr. Early had 


280 


LEAVES FROM A 


his first severe fit, I greatly feared they would return, 
and directed all my efforts to prevent their recurrence ; 
but, alas ! to no purpose, for he presently went off into 
a second and a third, riveting in my mind the conviction 
that he would speedily die in one of them, never to 
know his friends around him, or my well-meant but un- 
successful efforts in his behalf ; and above all, his faith- 
ful servant’s love and care for him. 

Contrary to my expectations, he seemed to wear out 
the power of his attacks, and at last lay for something 
like an hour and a half comparatively free from the im- 
mediate symptoms of a fourth paroxysm. 

He was now removed into his own room, an inner ad- 
joining bedroom, for greater quiet, as the daylight ap- 
proached, and it was thought best he should not be 
disturbed by the noise of rumbling vehicles and other 
sounds in the street below. No signs, however, as yet, 
of returning consciousness appeared, and the deep dis- 
turbed sleep — I feared it was the sleep precedent to the 
one that knows no waking — held him in its fearful 
grasp. 

The ladies and the gentlemen retired, while Jack and 
I remained to watch and wait for the feared result. 

Broad daylight dawned, but there were no signs of 
his awaking, and I began to prepare to depart, telling 
the disconsolate Jack, “I feared his master’s last 
hours had come, and that, as I must leave, he must 
take care of his master’s effects, and let me know 
if any thing occurred requiring my immediate atten- 
tion, when I would come instantly and attend to 
him.” 

With a most imploring look, Jack exclaimed — 


physician’s journal. 


281 


“ No, no, Massa Doctor, don’t go ; for de Lord sake 
don’t. ’Pears somfin’ goin’ to happen ; Jack don’t know 
what ’tis ; but it’s somfiin’ mighty strange ! Can’t gib 
massa’s soul up ! De body’s nofin’, massa ; ’tis de soul 
dats vallyable ! I’se prayed for de massa mor’n seben 
years, ebry day tree times, an’ Jack’s prayer ’pears 
mus’ be repeated in heaben. Don’t go, Massa Doctor, 
yet.” 

Partly from a conviction that the poor fellow was 
right, and that I was not quite doing my whole duty in 
not waiting longer to see the result of the sick man’s 
present state, and partly to please him, I sat down, in- 
tending to remain only a few moments longer. To 
while away a moment, I carelessly said to him — 

“ Jack, you are a free man now, I suppose ?” 

“ De people tells me I’se free as de air to go and do 
what I please, but I got no free-papers from massa, do 
he say I ken hab dem any time.” 

“ He will, if he dies, leave all his effects and money to 
you ?” I continued. 

Quietly scratching his head with both hands, he 
slowly said— 

“ Don’t know exactly what massa means by ’fects” 

“ His clothes, trunks, and money,” I explained. 

Large tears gathered in his eyes, and he remained 
silent some moments. Then looking around carefully, as 
if to detect the presence of any one, and slowly shaking 
his head, he whisperingly said — 

“ Massa Thom — Early, I mean — got no money. Massa 
loss all Souf, and didn’t take de right way here Norf 
wid what he had.” 

“ His name is not Early ; it is Thompson, is it not ?” 


282 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Don’t, don’t ’sist on dat question, massa ; me call 
him Early — he say so.” 

“ But how then does he live— I mean pay his way and 
your wages ?” 

Once more he narrowly scanned every nook and 
corner of the room, then looked at me, and gave a deep- 
drawn sigh. 

I pressed my question. 

“Massa,” said Jack, his eyes filling with tears, 
“ ’pears de Lord make his servant de humble instrument 
to take care of massa for all de good his old mammy do 
for poor Jack. She teach me to pray, and help Jack to 
de pool ob salvation.” 

“ You don’t mean, Jack, that you support your master, 
do you ?” 

“ De Lord make it my privilege and duty, to do som- 
fin’ for the child ob de saint in heban, massa, dats all ; 
I’s waiter in de hotel — big wages, and help massa 
trifle.” 

“ Do they know it here ?” 

With a solemn shake of the nead, he said — 

“None but de good Lord and ’selves know dat, 
massa.” 

As I was rising to go home, footsteps were heard on 
the stairs, and presently in came the two ladies and the 
gentlemen to inquire how our patient progressed. They 
sat down. Just then a strange noise proceeded from 
the room of the sick man. I hastily opened the door, 
and, without thinking, closed it, and hurried up to the 
bed where he lay. His eyes were now wide open, and 
with a wild stare he gazed at me with such a terror- 
stricken look as one would encounter an apparition 


physician’s journal. 


283 


with. With a fierce howl he leaped from the bed, ran 
to his table, and from the drawer took out a small bowie- 
knife, and turning towards me with a terrible scowl, 
roared out — 

“ Ha ! ha I ha ! have you come to carry me off, fiend ? 
But no, I’ll die game ! I’ll not be taken alive ! See 
here !” and he drew up the knife and pointed it at his 
own breast. 

Petrified, almost, I stood riveted to the spot. To re- 
treat or turn my back I dared not. To advance might 
be instant death to him, as he seemed to think I was 
some one come to tormdnt or remove him. Remember- 
ing that using calmness with the insane and diverting 
their attention often conquered them, I stood still, every 
nerve quivering, my heart in my mouth, and my flesh 
crawling on my bones. The noise at once attracted the 
friends in the other room, and as they opened the door 
the sight of the awful spectacle sent the ladies in terror 
and with loud cries down stairs. The insane man ad- 
vanced towards me with a fierce look, and a hissing’, 
maddened sibilation through his shut teeth, which, in 
my terrible fright, I could not understand. I was in 
the act of turning hastily around and flying, terror- 
smitten, when he seized my arm, and, brandishing the 
knife above his head, brought it down ; but his arm 
was held by Jack, whom I had not seen in my fright, 
and who took it from him and soothingly said — 

“ Massa, massa, good massa ! your own Jack is here, 
and won’t let any one hurt you. Come, massa, you will, 
won’t you ? See, I’s brought you somfin’ you’ll like 
mighty well,” exhibiting some trinkets he pulled out of 
his pockets, jingling them close to the insane man’s eyes. 


284 


LEAVES FROM A 


Like the waves on the sea of Galilee, quieted by the 
authoritative voice of Christ, or the sweet slumbers of 
the once restless babe on the mother’s breast, soothed 
by her lullaby, the poor, wandering intellect of the mas- 
ter was quieted ; he was soothed and calmed by this 
once slave. He drew from his hand the terrible instru- 
ment of death, walked him back to his bed, and gently 
laid him down to rest. 

As the servant alternately soothed and directed the 
varied whims of the madman, I thought what pure wis- 
dom, true philosophy, and sound science is here exhib- 
ited in the way this simple, loving, and sincere child of 
nature manages and controls the ferocious maniac. 

But his work did not end here. The poor man, 
soothed for a few moments, started up once more ; and, 
notwithstanding he was held in the firm embrace of the 
powerful arms of the colored man, he broke his toils, as 
a lion would a gossamer thread, and running to a corner 
of the room, he crouched down, and began addressing a 
variety of imaginary beings. 

“ You here ! Dead and damned ! Sweet girl ! Oh, 
how cruel ! Mother, save me ! Horror of horrors, see 
there ! He comes with the head of a female ! His 
glaring eyes ! All damned 1” etc., etc. 

Such were but a few of the incoherent expressions he 
uttered. But, true to his life-mission, Jack was by his 
side as soon as he crouched, and ejaculated continually 
some soothing and appropriate answer to his master’s 
mental hallucinations ; and when leading him back to 
bed, he half articulated in natural accents, and half 
prayed — 

“ Lord, de great Massa of all, ’member de wild man in 


physician’s journal. 285 

de tombs. Jesus, Massa, pass dis way ; speak to dis 
child too ; calm de seas ; bid de feller go. Oh, cross 
ob de Lord God, he’r poor Jack cry I” 

“Jack, Jack !” cried the madman, when he had lain a 
few minutes, “ where’s mother ? Go bring her ; tell her 
I want her !” 

“ Ah, massa, noble massa, de saint is at rest wid de 
Lord in glory 1” cried Jack, laying each hand on the 
madman’s cheeks, and bringing them down as if making 
passes on him mesmerically. 

“ Glory !” screamed Mr. Early ; “ I’ve sought glory at 
the cannon’s mouth ! Powder ! fire ! smoke ! the bonny 
blue flag with the single star ! Hurrah for indepen- 
dence, freedom, honor, death, and glory !” 

“Ah, massa,” said Jack, kneeling down by the side 
of Mr. Early, “’taint worldly glory Jack’s talkin’ ’bout, 
but ’bout Jesus and de kingdom. De glory ob de world 
pass away like fire-rockets, and leave nufin’ but sticks, 
darkness, and empty sound ; but, massa, Jesus’ glory 
fill de soul — make it happy — make death like ’lijah in 
chariot ob fire — rob de grabe ob de darkness — and is 
passport to de white robes, tree ob life, ribber ob life, 
fruit ob de paradise, an’ de eberlastin’ smilin’ ob de 
Lord.” 

During Jack’s glowing description — the faintest and 
briefest possible sketch of which is here given — Mr. 
Early seemed for a time to be soothed by his servant’s 
familiar voice ; but the demon of madness was only sub- 
dued for an instant, as it were, not removed, and he 
once more darted from his bed, swept around the room — 
Jack following him — leaping, screaming, threatening, 
imprecating, and addressing to him the names of 


286 


LEAVES FROM A 


familiar forms and faces. His eyes glared on these im- 
aginary objects and persons, and while he addressed them 
his face was contorted horribly, and in his nude state it 
was fearful to behold every muscle quiver and every 
nerve vibrate. A second time Jack brought him back 
to his couch, and persuaded him to sit down, when a 
varied whim seizing his brain — 

“My portfolio, Jack !” he screamed. 

Jack brought it. 

“ Write, and I will dictate 1” he roared, and then 
gave a maniac’s laugh, and rubbed his hands as if 
some new and cunning idea had entered his mind. 

Jack took pen in hand and began to scribble, though 
he knew not how to write. 

“ Stop ! stop 1” he cried, placing his fingers to his 
brow, as if thinking ; “ you can’t write. Cursed slav- 
ery ! to keep in ignorance so true a friend ! Here, I’ll 
not trust any man with my private business. I’m in a 
land of enemies !” 

He took the pen and wrote, dating the year, month, 
and day correctly, and went on : 

“To his sublime majesty, Jefferson Davis, king of 
heaven and all the sublime hosts of the independent Con- 
federacy of the South, and soon to be chief ruler of the 
North, greeting : — Extreme want, fear of the enemy, 
and the machinations of the infernal powers, Moloch, 
Apollyon, and the great Dragon, lead me to send to you 
for money, succor, and aid. 0 mighty king, hell 
seems let loose upon me ! Stars are falling all around 
me ; the earth is opening, and I’m about to starve to 
death, bereft of all my property. I expect my beloved 
Eugenia’s miniature likeness is carried off by the great 


physician’s journal. 


287 


polar bear. 0 cruel Eugenia, queen of heaven, em- 
press of night, Venus of the seas, my soul is ill at ease ! 
But I shall be mad, mad, mad I” and he dashed paper, 
pen, and ink all around him, and began circling round 
the room once more, to the terror of all present. 

This paroxysm over, he was induced to lie down 
quietly, but there was still the restless eye, the sibila- 
ting and frothing, and evidence of the wandering mind 
of the maniac. * 

Satisfied he was hopelessly, for the present at least, 
bereft of reason, and fearful he might do himself or 
others harm, I resolved to have him secured and re- 
moved to the nearest insane retreat. Having communi- 
cated my purposes to Jack, he shook his head, saying — 

“ Massa Doctor, he do no damage. Ps stronger dan 
heah, and Ps able to manage him. Will git ober dis, 
massa, he will ; de Lord tell me so. Ps a wrestling wid 
de angel ob de Lord all de time. See, now, if ole Jack 
ain’t right.” 

His strength of person, the strong entreaty, and a 
conviction that Jack might do as he promised, together 
with a knowledge of his success in the past, led me to 
promise him I would not have him removed, if he grew 
no more violent, for a few days, when I supposed he 
would become so ungovernable that he must be confined 
or be a confirmed idiot, and would have to be incarcer- 
ated in some insane asylum. 

Some necessary medicines were ordered, with direc- 
tions left to Jack, which he declared should be faithfully 
seen to, and I left, ruminating on the exciting scenes I 
had passed through. 

What medical man, on leaving a critical case, has not 


288 


LEAVES FROM A 


been overwhelmed and oppressed with its mystery and 
magnitude, and the ignorance he acknowledged to while 
reflecting on similar cases ? 

“ If he die,” I thought, “ I shall see by a post-mortem 
the condition of his brain, and, it may be, learn some- 
thing.” But then the thought that nothing certain had 
been decided on by all our examinations came forcibly 
to my mind, and I sighed at our ignorance. “ An apo- 
plectic cell has no relation, direct or ‘inverse, that we 
are capable of appreciating, with a sentiment ; nor a 
distended lateral ventricle with the exercise of the 
will.” One thing seems tolerably certain from all the 
facts we know of — theories are worth little in such 
reasonings — that the strongest sane minds when in- 
sanity comes on, are maniacs with the former impress 
of mental power wrongly reasoning, but often from 
tolerably just premises ; while idiots do not reason at 
all, and have been always of weak minds. This, how- 
ever, refers to the early stages of the malady ; for 
the strongest and most violent insanity, if continued 
for a length of time, eventuates often in complete 
fatuity. 

But the difference between the recuperating mad- 
man, and the drivelling idiot is, that the disease of the 
madman often burns itself out, and he, like a ship in a 
storm, rides out the gale, and at last enters the harbor 
somewhat shipwrecked, but safe ; while the idiot, like 
the stranded vessel, is never able to regain his former 
powers. One thing seems clear, the imagination is the 
chief faculty that is attacked in all mental aberrations : 
and they who have this faculty in greatest power are 
more likely to become mad, and when deranged, are 


physician’s journal. 


289 


more terribly excited, the faculty supplying the objects 
of terror and grief. 

Pari passu, then, a writer, or extensive reader of fic- 
tion, becomes more terribly insane than one not thus 
mentally situated ; and it has been proved by the logic 
of statistics — the fair sex will pardon the statement — 
that there are more female idiots in lunatic asylums 
than males, on the theory that the stronger mental 
powers of the male sex furnish the reasons already ad- 
verted to. 

Oppressed with these and a host of similar thoughts, 
home and quiet for a brief season were welcome. 

For three weeks there were alternate flashes of terri- 
ble maniacal excitement and brief returns of sanity, the 
latter state predominating in number and length each 
time. A diamond breastpin reconciled the boarding- 
house people to let him remain, notwithstanding his 
discommoding condition. 

Jack attended him faithfully night and day, and 
seemed never tired, never wearied, and never doubtful 
of one of two things — either his recovery, or his spir- 
itual preparation for another world, in the event of his 
removal thither. 

One afternoon in the beginning of the fourth week of 
his sickness, Jack appeared at my office, radiant of face, 
and hilariously jubilant, his white eyes rolling, his face 
wreathed in smiles, and his hand on his mouth, to pre- 
vent giving too loud an expression to his feelings, as 
there were other persons present. He called me out 
into the hall, and exclaimed — 

“ 0 massa, bress de Lord, de feber broke, de demon 
gone, de chile in de right mind ; he talk like he used to 
13 


290 


LEAVES FROM A 


wid Jack, and ax many questions ’bout he sickness. 
Come, massa, quick, and see de great works ob de 
Lord.” 

Informing him I would be with his master as soon as 
possible, I sent him home. 

In the evening, I silently entered the house and made 
my way to the adjoining room on tip-toe, advancing to 
the door of the bedroom where Jack and the sick man 
were. The first words I heard were — 

“ Doctor soon be here, massa, but Jesus de best physi- 
cian for de soul. He say, Come, weary and heaby laden, 
to all. He good for sick body and trouble soul,” and 
then began to sing in a low, sympathetic tunc, the 
words — 

“ Come and possess me whole, 

Nor hence again remove ; 

Settle and fix my wav’ring soul 
With all thy weight of love.” 

The sick man gave me a wild stare as I entered, and 
seemed disturbed at my appearance. 

“ Dis, massa, am de Doctor dat tend you when sick,” 
said Jack, soothingly, laying his hand on his person. 

The sick man bowed, and directed Jack to seat me. 

But what a change was there ! There was the once 
tempest-tossed and agonized soul and form, now calm 
and pale as summer’s evening. It was like the calm 
sea after the fierce gale, and the quiet succeeding the 
furious hurricane — the coming forth of the sun after the 
“ pelting of the pitiless storm.” 

I learned that he had had one of his fiercest paroxysms 
just prior to his recent calm — so fierce that the gentle- 
man of the house had determined he could keep Mr. Early 


PHYSICIANS JOURNAL. 


291 


no longer for any consideration, and lie awaited a more 
quiet state to have me remove him at once ; but the rage 
ended in the calm, and the poor man now seemed so 
much improved, that he was finally allowed to remain. 

Conversation with him developed nothing new as to 
the nature of his disease or the general subject of in- 
sanity ; but he sometimes smiled and sometimes wept, 
as certain sayings or doings by him in his insanity were 
referred to by Jack. 

“I owe much to you, Doctor, and also to poor Jack,” 
he feebly uttered at different times when visiting him, 
“ and I hope to reward both — of course but slightly; for 
I cannot ever, I never shall be able to understand all 
you have done for me.” 

“ It is to Jack you owe nearly all your debt of grati- 
tude,” I firmly said ; lt and the least” — (“ To de good 
Lord massa most in debt — yes, five hundred talents,” 
Jack interposed) — “ and I hope you will not forget him, 
whoever else you may neglect.” 

A fond look of gratitude towards Jack by the master 
made such an impression on the poor fellow, that he 
wept like a child, and his great chest heaved and rose 
and fell with his strong emotions. 

A few weeks enabled him to determine on a journey 
to Baltimore ; and from a hint he casually dropped, I 
found he meant to visit Virginia and look after his pri- 
vate affairs, which induced me to incidentally refer to 
his history. On this point he was reluctant to speak, 
however, and I felt unlike obtruding further question- 
ings. 

He came several times to my office when convales- 
cent, and he seemed apparently quite restored ; but there 


292 


LEAVES FROM A 


was once or twice, I thought, the slightest symptoms 
of his former insanity — a few sparks of an extinct fire, 
the slightest possible portion of the dirt cast upon the 
sea-shore after the storm. But he left the city, and I 
have never heard from him since. 

Jack remained. His master offered him his freedom ; 
but his attachment for him was so strong that he really 
hated to part from him. But when the chance was pre- 
sented for him to choose between slavery and freedom, 
Jack could not refuse to accept the latter. He never 
heard from his former master — at least not within the * 
knowledge of the writer. 



physician’s journal. 


293 


A SINGULAR CASE OF IMAGINATION. , 


influence of the imagination upon the other 
faculties of the human mind, the perceptive as 
well as the reflective, has afforded to the men- 
tal philosopher matter for much reflection and 
comment. 

It is to this source, no doubt, that we may refer a 
large proportion of the optical illusions of which we hear 
and read, including most instances of the supposed ap- 
pearance of ghosts and goblins, the stories of which so 
frighten children, and often those of larger growth. It 
is also the power of the mind through which are called 
into being the morbid fantasies that haunt the poor vic- 
tim of hypochondria. 

The great Napoleon, however, appears, in certain parts 
of his career, to have fostered the tendencies of his 
imagination, and to have been guided by its influence to 
the securing of some of his victories. 

As among the instances which illustrate in an eminent 
degree the power of the imagination to produce extraor- 
dinary effects upon the general state and action of the 
human mind, I may name that of Doctor Johnson’s op- 
tical illusion of a little black dog following him through 
the streets of London and to his residence ; that of Mar- 


294 


LEAVES FROM A 


tin Luther, who, while in his room writing against the 
Pope, believed that he distinctly saw the devil appear 
before him, and who, to rid himself of so unacceptable 
a visitor, threw his inkstand at the imaginary form ; and 
that of Melancthon, who thought that, through the me- 
dium of a little bird chirping on a tree, he heard the 
voice of a departed soul, uttering in the word “ Eter- 
nity” the horrors it was suffering. 

The power of imagination was remarkably illustrated 

in the case of one of my female patients, a Mrs. F . 

She was a highly-educated lady, then some thirty years 
of age ; and who, married in early life, was blessed in 
the companionship of an affectionate husband and of two 
lovely children. As the family were in very comfortable 

circumstances, Mrs. F had no occasion to feel any 

anxious cares that might prey upon her sensitive organ- 
ization. Surrounded, too, with friends and relatives who 
were devoted to her interests, she was, to all outward 
appearance, most happily situated. Still, she labored 
under a morbid state of mind, and which constantly 
preyed upon her spirits and her health. 

“ I shall die soon !” This was the burden of feel- 
ings that perpetually tormented her, and of her ever- 
recurring expressions. She had her coffin made and 
brought to her house, and her grave-clothes also made, 
shroud, cap, and all that might be required for her inter- 
ment. She would frequently give minute directions as to 
where and how the funeral rites should be solemnized. 

“ Bury me,” she would say, mournfully, “in Green- 
wood, by the side of my dear mother, close to the weep- 
ing-willow that shades her grave, and to where my little 
sister Nettie has slept so many years. You must plant 


physician's journal. 295 

evergreens at my feet. At my head set the rose-bush — 
my favorite one — that is now in the garden ; so that it 
may put forth its buds in the spring-time over the spot 
where I shall lie, and fill the air over where we all rest 
with its perfume. Let my dear husband — who has been 
so kind to me in all my afflictions, and whom I have 
never ceased to love — when he shall die, be placed by 
my side. And when at last it shall come to be the turn 
of little Frank and sweet little Rosa to be laid in the 
earth, let them, too, be placed by my side. Then we 
shall all rise together, when Jesus shall send the angels 
to gather His saints home to the land of the blest.” 

These requests, often repeated, disclosed the feelings 
that had gained control of her judgment, and the men- 
tal condition in which she was. One day, her husband 
stopped me in the street, saying to me — 

“ Doctor, I would give all I ever possessed, if you 
could do any thing to relieve permanently the mental 
condition of my poor wife.” 

“ Her case is a very extraordinary one,” I said in re- 
ply. “ I have visited her twice already, as you know, 
but without doing any thing for her as yet, and because 
I have desired time for reflection as to what to do. I 
prefer to do nothing, until I can be reasonably sure that 
what is done will be productive of good. It is not medi- 
cine that she needs, although she is very weak and 
nervous. It is her mind that is diseased — at least, it is 
the mind alone that shows a disordered condition — and 
I have fears about attempting, by a severe medical 
course, to produce a sudden and great change. There 
is danger, even, that she might only pass from one un- 
happy mood of mind to another — that the gentleness, 


296 


LEAVES FROM A 


patience, and sweetness of disposition she possesses 
might give way, and that her mental state might thus 
be injured, rather than benefited.” 

“ Use your own judgment, Doctor,” said Mr. F ; 

“ but, in the multiplicity of your engagements, don’t 
forget her.” 

“ Best assured I shall do my best for her recovery,” 
I answered. “ I am in part waiting, now, for some turn 
to take place in her disease — some mental change or 
fortunate incident, of which I may take advantage for 
her good. But, since it is not far from where we are, 

Mr. F , suppose you step into my carriage, and let 

us together see how she is this morning.” 

He followed my suggestion with alacrity, and I drove 
at once to his residence. It was a delightful spring 
morning — the twenty-first day, in fact, of the “ merry 
month of May.” The trees were putting forth buds and 
leaves ; the early flowering plants were bursting out 
from their winter grave, spreading forth their little stalks 
and branches, their buds opening, and the perfume be- 
ginning to scent the air. 

It was in the midst of a scene which spring thus 
made delightful that Mr. F dwelt. Bows of beau- 

tiful shrubbery surrounded his home, and in summer 
almost concealed it from the view of passers on the 
adjoining walks. Ornamental and fruit trees covered 
the lawns stretching around his fine residence ; while 
flowers of rarest varieties and hues adorned the parterres 
that were tastefully laid out in the intervals. Inter- 
mingled with, and lying beyond these, also, was seen a 
delicious green sward ; and neat, gravelled walks con- 
ducted the visitor to whatever point he desired through- 


physician’s journal. 


297 


out these beautiful grounds. In front of the edifice, 
clusters of vines hung upon the wainscoting in taste- 
ful negligence. Every thing about was, at this season, 
transporting to the eye and fragrant to the senses. 

Alighting and entering the mansion, we were soon in 
the presence of the lady whom we sought. Contrary to 
all our expectations, she had arisen from her bed, com- 
pleted her own toilet, and was sitting at a window, 
enjoying the bland morning air. 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. F ,” I said, advancing with 

extended hand to where she sat. 

She rose from her seat, and, naturally and gracefully 
holding out her hand, said, “ I’m glad to see you, Doc- 
tor. Mary, give the Doctor a chair.” 

Conversation on general topics ensued — [upon the 
beautiful weather, her fine shrubbery and garden, and 
the pleasant situation ; but at this point a cloud sud- 
denly passed over her brow, and presently she said, in 
a mournful tone — 

“ Yes, they are all beautiful ; but I shall soon leave 
them, Doctor ! — yes, very soon !” 

11 But, Mrs. F ,” I said, “ I was just observing with 

pleasure how much better you are this morning.” 

“ I think I do feel better,” she replied, “ but I already 
know too well that it will not last long.” And then, 
before we could recover from our unhappy surprise at 
this sudden and unexpected change in the patient’s feel- 
ings and manner, she added, “ There is a sensation of 
great fulness in my head ; and I feel, too, a sinking of 
my mental and physical powers : I must get to bed.” 
At the same time she rose, but said, as she was about 
to leave us, “ Doctor, I must retire : it will take but a 
13 * 


298 


LEAVES FROM A 


moment : don’t go away ; I shall need your services 
presently.” And so saying, she left the room. 

In a few moments the maid summoned us both to her 
chamber. Her husband, with an expression of renewed 
anxiety upon his face, drew his seat up by her bedside ; 
and I waited, with not a little curiosity, to learn under 
what new development the morbid fancy of my patient 
was about to present itself. 

Mrs. F appeared thinking for a moment, as if re- 

viewing in her own mind her situation, then looked at 
us both, and presently said — 

“ Doctor ! do you see that clock ?” 

Turning to look where the clock stood, I said — 
“Certainly, madam ! It is now eleven o’clock — just 
ready to strike.” 

“ Unless one thing is done to save me,” said Mrs. 

F , with the slow and impressive manner indicating 

a perfect conviction in her own mind, “ at the end of two 
hours from this time I shall be dead ! By one o’clock I 
shall be no more 1” 

This singular speech startled both the husband and 
myself. “ From what cause can this new imagination 
have seized upon her ?” I asked myself, but in vain. 
After a considerable pause, prolonged in part by my fear 
that she was going to request of us something impossi- 
ble, I asked of her — 

“ And what is that one thing ?” 

“ Unless I am bled in the temples, and in the arm,” 
she said, “ I shall die by one o’clock 1” 

“ Oh !” I answered her, “ is it that that will save your 
life ? If that is all that is required, your request shall 
be gratified. In truth, however, madam, I am opposed 


physician's journal. 


299 


to the sj^stem of bloodletting, as generally practised ; 
and I should be especially so here, in view of your weak 
and emaciated condition.” 

“ That is all that will save my life,” she replied, with 
the utmost resoluteness and assurance in her manner. 
“ You need not doubt or question what I say : I know 
that I shall die by that time, if I am not bled !” 

In order, at once, to test the force and tenacity of this 
singular impression that had fastened itself upon my 
patient’s mind, and if possible also to dispel it, I now 
began a course of reasoning with her, with the endeavor 
to convince her of the inutility of bleeding in her case. 
I urged upon her the facts of her already impoverished 
blood, and of the smallness of its quantity at the same 
time, so that, compatibly with the needs of her system, 
she had really no blood to spare. I called her attention 
to her weak condition, and the drain which any loss of 
blood must necessarily make upon her already enfeebled 
vital powers. Still, her only reply was — 

“ Doctor, I know my own feelings and condition best. 
Nothing but bleeding will save my life— nothing, sir, 
but bleeding !” 

It was now a quarter past twelve o’clock. I ex- 
amined my patient’s pulse, and found it to stand at 
seventy pulsations to the minute. Time wore on, and I 
matured in rny own thoughts the plan upon which I 
would proceed. Getting the husband aside for a few 
moments, in a manner not to attract the sick woman’s 
observation, I intimated to him that it was my inten- 
tion not to bleed her, but yet to produce on her mind 
the same impression as if I did abstract blood ; and told 
him that he must leave to me the entire management of 


300 


LEAVES FEOM A 


the case. He readily acquiesced in my plan, and in all 
that I did to carry it out. 

To Mrs. F herself I now conveyed the impres- 

sion of a doubt whether I really would bleed her. She 
evidently resigned herself to my decision, as if she no 
longer craved to live ; and so wholly absorbed was she 
in the fixed mental impression of her approaching disso- 
lution, that she scarcely seemed to realize, at least as 
yet, the fact of the separation from her husband and 
children, that was involved in the change. Meanwhile, 
I observed that from the moment when I had expressed 
a doubt about the bleeding, her pulse had begun grad- 
ually to fail. It rapidly fell to as low as fifty ; and as 
time wore on, she continued still to sink. At length, 
there remained only a lapse of twenty minutes before 
the fatal moment in which — it had become fixed in Mrs. 

F ’s imagination — she must expire. Her pulse, 

sinking lower and lower, was now at about forty , 
and so feeble as scarcely to be perceptible. All the 
symptoms of approaching death began now to show 
themselves — the languid eye, the pale face, the clammy 
brow, and the vacant stare — so frequently the forerun- 
ners of immediate dissolution. 

I need scarcely inform the reader that, by this time, 
I had begun to feel very nervous myself. Conscien- 
tiously opposed to bloodletting, in every form of disease, 
and that through a conviction that in all the supposedly 
needful cases there are other remedies equally effectual 
and less liable to be followed by hurtful consequences, 
which the physician can have or find at hand, I still felt 
that in this case, where a single fixed idea in my 
patient’s head appeared to set the whole Materia 


physician’s journal. 


301 


Medica at naught, I must abstract some blood — at least 
enough to make my patient believe she had been regu- 
larly bled ; or that if I failed of this result, she would die, 
beyond question. As I had now no time left for specu- 
lations as to the choice between actual bleeding and the 
make-believe operation, I finally and promptly decided 
on the latter. 

Mrs. F now appeared well-nigh insensible, though 

it was evident that she saw and understood what took 
place directly before her eyes. I quietly ordered the 
waiting-maid to bring me a basin of water, just blood- 
warm, and then, in a louder tone, gave directions that 
bandages should be instantly brought. Then, drawing 
from my pocket my instrument-case, opening it imme- 
diately before her eyes, and taking from it a small lan- 
cet, which I always Carried for such purposes as punc- 
turing trifling abscesses or cutting children’s gums, 
and soon after taking, with much ceremony, from the 
waiting-maid a strong bandage which she brought, I 
next laid hold of her arm, feeling over it, and making 
much pressure at different parts, as if finding the proper 
place at which to make the incision. I also made pres- 
sure in like manner over the temples. I found that the 
pulse already began, and that from that time it con- 
tinued, to rise. Still, as was necessary, I now com- 
menced my operations in earnest. 

I tied the bandage around her arm tightly. I put a 
wash-hand-basin underneath the spot at which the im- 
aginary incision was to be made. Then I said to my 
patient — 

“ You must have your eyes and face bandaged, Mrs. 
F ; for you might give a sudden start as the lancet 


302 


LEAVES FROM A 


enters your temples, and some accident of an unpleasant 
character might thus take place. I don’t want to in- 
jure your eyes, or to leave an ugly-looking scar upon 
your temples.” 

This was the point of danger. If she had been made 
in the slightest degree to suspect my ruse , then all 
would have been over. I must, in that case, really 
bleed her ; and the result would be that I should have 
lost the opportunity fpr the experiment on which I had 
set my mind, and which, in case she remained ignorant 
of it, I was perfectly sure must succeed. Fortunately 
she willingly signified her consent, and I bandaged her 
eyes, as I had proposed. 

Mr. F held his wife’s hand. Mary, the waiting- 

maid, held the hand-basin, and the child’s nurse com- 
pressed her arm where it was bandaged. I pricked her 
arm rapidly in several places with my lancet, using 
both my hands, in order to give the impression of as 
much pain as possible, and to get all the blood that the 
minute punctures through the skin would yield. I then 
went through a like operation upon one of her temples. 
In both the instances, I took the precaution to have a 
little warm water spouted lightly upon the point I punc- 
tured, and just at the moment, this being then allowed 
to trickle over the arm and temple, and being caught in 
the basin and by cloths. Finally, after ceasing thus to 
use the water, I smeared the arm and temple with what 
little blood I could still obtain from the punctures. 

Presently the basin was taken away and emptied, the 
cloths were removed, and also the bandages, with the 
whispered direction to the maid that they should be im- 
mediately washed, so as not to bet ’ay how little blood 


physician’s journal. 303 

they had received ; and the punctures were covered 
with a slight adhesive dressing. 

Mrs. F rapidly revived, recovering her strength, 

and the natural use of all her powers. She felt of her 
temples and looked at the arm, on which the blood was 
still remaining, and then, with a satisfied expression on 
her countenance, she looked at me and said — 

“ There, Doctor, why did you not do this before ? I 
shall get well now.” 

And, in fact, she did recover, not merely from the 
deep and dangerous prostration into which she was 
sinking, as her supposed mortal hour drew near, but 
also, and in the same convalescence, from her previous 
living death — the continual, morbid possession with the 
thought of the near approach of the “ king of terrors.” 
I have the best reason to believe that neither her hus- 
band nor the domestics ever disclosed, or intimated by a 
word to her, the peculiarly efficacious manner in which 
the “ bleeding” that was to save her life was performed ; 
so that she doubtless remained, to the day when death 
at last really overtook her, ignorant of the ruse which 
had been practised upon her. 

Thus is added, to the many already known, another 
instance illustrative of the remarkable power of the im- 
agination over the operations and conditions of the liv- 
ing system. 



304 


LEAVES FROM A 


A WISE USE OF ADVERSITY. 


proposes, but God disposes.” 

This was the significant and impressive lan- 
guage of a French lady to Napoleon, as to a 
company of admiring listeners, in one of his 
magnificent saloons in the Tuileries, he finished detail- 
ing the plan of his projected Russian campaign. 

In the experience of few persons, perhaps, has the 
truth conveyed in those words been more vividly illus- 
trated than in that of him who is the subject of this 
sketch. 

Mr. R had travelled through the United States, 

the Canadas, Mexico, and the West India Islands. He 
had visited the three British kingdoms and the principal 
cities and towns of Continental Europe. He had been, 
for pleasure, profit, or adventure, in the four quarters of 
the great globe. And now, rich, and in a manner wise, 
he had returned to his native city, Brooklyn, determined 
to settle down in ease, quiet, and the enjoyment of all 
life’s blessings. 

To woo and to win a “ fair lady” was now his first 
thought ; and this end he was not long in accomplish- 
ing. To set up a splendid establishment naturally fol- 
lowed next in order ; and this his wealth, aided by a 
little time, brought about as a matter of course. 


physician’s journal. 


305 


About one year after his settlement in this bustling 
city, which is in reality a part of the metropolis of the 
New World, I was called to visit his lady; and chiefly, I 
suppose, because I happened to be the nearest resident 
physician. A promising little son was, on the occasion, 
added to the sum of his already numerous joys. Indeed, 
it was manifest that, at this time, in the life of Mr. 
R , all was going as “ merry as a marriage-bell.” 

In my daily rounds, for months afterwards, I often 

met Mr. R , with his wife and his boy, enjoying, in 

their elegant carriage, the beautiful drives for which 
the city of Brooklyn is so famous. I missed him after 
this, however, for some two years : and it is well known 
how, in the midst of the incessant labors and crowding 
events of our avocations, we soon forget particular in- 
dividuals, unless it happens that they frequently cross 
our path. 

One day a dear friend, one to whom I owe many obli- 
gations, especially in connection with my early profes- 
sional struggles, and who is now a wealthy retired mer- 
chant, called upon me, requesting that I would go with 
him to see a tenant of his, who, he told me, was quite 
blind, and too poor to pay the smallest fee for medical 
attendance. 

“ Certainly,” I said ; “ I will go at any time you wish, 
if I have no previous engagement for that hour.” 

“Well, then,” said my friend, “if you can call at my 
house, which is on the way to my tenant’s, to-morrow 
afternoon, I will go with you to see him. Come early, 
and we can take a fine ride, and so do ourselves some 
good while benefiting others.” 

Four o’clock p. m., the next day, found me seated in 


306 


LEAVES FROM A 


my conveyance and on the road to my friend’s house. 
He was waiting for me, and setting forth together, we 
soon found ourselves at the door of the sick man. The 
apartment into which I was conducted was very plain 
and poorly furnished, yet scrupulously neat. Upon my 
introduction to the two grown persons present, the only 
ones who appeared, the impression forced itself upon me 
that I had seen the wife before, and the husband’s voice, 
too, seemed familiar ; but as I could not make myself 
sure in either case, I said nothing. Every thing around 
bore the evidence of extreme poverty, and yet every 
thing was clean and exceedingly neat. I saw no child 
about, and this fact led me to think that my half-formed 
conjecture might be a mistaken one. I finally concluded 
to let matters reveal themselves, in the natural course. 

The man I was called to see was totally blind, having 
lost his eyesight by a “Fourth of July” accident ; and 
he was, at the time, also ill with an incipient lung in- 
flammation — that is, pneumonia. 

During my short stay up to this time, I had already 
begun to observe an evident embarrassment on the part 
of the wife. This, at first, I attributed to the mere fact 
of the presence of a stranger. But I soon saw that the 
feeling increased rather than diminished, as I prolonged 
my stay. In fact, we began to be both of us em- 
barrassed; We had begun mentally to recognize each 
other, and pride — an honest and just pride — on her part, 
and on mine an indisposition, even by the smallest indi- 
rection, to introduce unpleasant matters, kept us both 
silent as to former times. 

Not so, however, with the invalid. While I was con- 
versing with him, he seemed at length to pause all at 


physician’s journal. 307 

once ; and then he said to himself, in a low yet audible 
tone — 

“ It must be he ; it is his voice I am sure, and his 
talk is like him — exactly like him.” Then, in a louder 
voice, to assure himself, he asked me — “Did you not, 
sir, once live in street ?” 

“ Most assuredly,” I answered. 

“ And you are Doctor ?” 

“ It is true,” was my reply. 

“ 0 my God !” said he, “ you are the man — the very 

gentleman who visited us first on C street, when 

little Samuel was born.” And he then proceeded, rest- 
ing at times to spare his weak lungs, to give me quite a 
history of the surroundings and circumstances of that 
now distant day of our first meeting. Pausing again, 
to regain composure, he then continued : “ Can it be 
possible, Doctor ? How changed things are with me, at 
all events ! Then I was rich — now I am poor — very 
poor ! Then our little Samuel was alive, to gladden 
our hearts — now, he too is gone ! Then, I had troops 
of friends, or such as one would suppose were friends — 
but now, ah me I they have flown, like the summer-birds, 
it seems, to seek more congenial skies 1 Then, too, how 
handsomely I could entertain my friends — now, I can 
barely get the commonest necessaries of life 1 Oh 
dear 1” he cried out passionately, and burying his face 
in his hands, “ gone, all gone ! — forever gone !” 

Out of a necessary solicitude for my patient’s state of 
health, and especially entertaining apprehensions about 
the effect of his agitation, and his continued speaking, 
even in the low and guarded manner to which he for the 
most confined himself, upon his feeble and irritable 


308 


LEAVES FROM A 


lungs, I strove now to dissuade him from further dis- 
course at this time upon topics which must so excite 
him. But it was in vain. The fountains of memory had 
been too deeply stirred — the contrast between that bril- 
liant past and this cramped, contracted, and dispiriting 
present, appeared, upon his unexpected recognition of 
me and recall of my first visit, to have risen up sharply 
defined and luminous in its clearness in his mind — two 
vivid pictures thus confronting each other in his 
thought, as if they stood out there, free from all soften- 
ing effect of that medium of gradually descending steps 
and darkening prospects, through which the sad transi- 
tion from one to the other had been made. 

I was myself struck, almost as much, it appeared to 
me, as its unhappy subjects could be, with the sudden 
revelation of a vicissitude in life so great and startling ; 
and it was, perhaps, under the influence of this feeling 
that I forebore to insist so strenuously as I should other- 
wise have done on my patient's deferring to another time 
the remainder of his narration, and now seeking the 
benefits of quiet and repose. In a little time, and after 
an almost convulsive effort to regain his self-possession, 
Mr. R proceeded : 

“ But why do I complain ? Much — very much — is yet 
left me. I have a good wife, who earns the bread I eat — 
feeds me as she would a child — yes ! even dresses and 
undresses me ; and now and then, on a pleasant day 
(when I am able, and her work will permit it), leads me 
out to enjoy the balmy air ! I thank God for all these 
mercies, which are very great — oh ! so much greater than 
many know , who have never themselves been called per- 
sonally to make trial of the furnace of affliction ! 


physician’s journal. 


309 


“ But, Doctor, my history, since we last met, has been 
an eventful one. In my travels, long ago, it was once 
my lot to fall among Mexican robbers, who stripped me 
of all I had with me ; and yet the event, I believe, made 
a good, as well as a very permanent, impression on my 
mind. Once I was detained as a spy, and came near 
being hung for my supposed crime : then, it is true, I 
was careless of my fate. Twice have I been shipwrecked, 
once in the Mediterranean, and once on the Atlantic — 
losing all, and escaping a thousand deaths by exposure 
and starvation. But none of these events were remem- 
bered by me, in such spirit and to such purpose as, it 
would appear, Providence designed them. 

“ I was worth one hundred thousand dollars, Doctor, 
when you first saw me ; and now that, too, is all gone. 
But, through circumstances which I need not stop to 
relate, my houses, horses, carriages, and all, have been 
swept from me as by a whirlwind. Yet none of these 
things brought me to my senses. My dear wife was 
then taken ill, and lay so for four months, often near to 
death's door. During this time my little son also fell 
sick. Day by day I, with others, watched in turn by 
both their bedsides — hope and fear for each alternating 
in my mind. Still I did not yield to the chastening — 
no change came in me. Well, during this time it coming 
1 Fourth of July/ I went abroad a little while to relieve 
my mind, and to enjoy, as much as my circumstances 
permitted, the glory of our great Liberty day ; and it 
was in that walk the accident took place by which the 
sight of both my eyes was destroyed. I was carried 
home, in a nearly exhausted state. Then I was myself 
for some time confined to my room ; but though I lost 


310 


LEAVES FROM A 


my eyes, the strength of a constitution that had been, in 
fact, improved by my former rough mode of life, enabled 
me steadily to regain my general health. 

“ In the mean time, my wife recovered from her long 
illness ; but our dear boy died. When he was dead, I 
begged to be permitted to feel his lifeless person — for 
his fine form and his lovely face I could now no longer 
behold ! They carried me to the little room where he lay 
in his shroud, and placed me close to his little coffin. 
They put my hand on his cold and marble brow. I knelt 
down by his side. My head rested on his : I felt his 
cold face, kissed his lips, and handled his little curls 1 
Then I exclaimed, ‘ 0 God, it is enough 1 Stricken, smit- 
ten, and afflicted, the wandering child of pious parents, 
who have long since gone to heaven, will yield. I will 
kiss the rod that smites me ; and though I cannot now 
see Thee in all nature, as once I might have done, yet I 
do and will hear Thee in the silence of my heart/ They 
came to remove me, but I said, ‘Oh no ! not yet — not 
until here audibly, in your presence, and, above all, in 
the presence of the all-seeing God, I make my vows. 
Samuel ! dearest Samuel ! thou wilt never come to me, 
but I will go to thee, in that world where the wicked cease 
from troubling and the weary are at rest / ” 

I now again urged upon my patient to consider the 
danger of over-taxing his powers, assuring him that, as 
well as medicines, quiet was necessary to his recovery. 
To my representations he now yielded ; only saying — 

“ I have, during my eventful life, done harm, and even 
wrong, to many of my fellow-creatures ; and I feel that 
my remaining days should be all employed in doing for 
mankind what little good I may be able to.” 


physician’s journal. 


311 


After this, for some time, I had frequently to visit my 
blind patient. His disease proved obstinate ; but, with 
the aid of the nursing his excellent wife could give him, 
he finally recovered. When fie was quite restored to 
strength, he began, and for some years made it his only 
business, to visit different day and Sabbath schools in 
this and the adjoining city, and to give to the children 
short lectures upon what he had seen in the many regions 
of the earth, and among the great variety of people and 
tribes he had visited, usually turning the incidents and 
customs on which he spoke to account in the way of 
moral instruction, or accompanying his recitals with ad- 
vice and encouragement suited to the needs of his young 
auditors. In these extempore discourses, his text was 
very often his own little Samuel and his death. And 
more than once has it been my privilege to listen to his 
artless tale, told with such simple pathos as to bring 
tears even to eyes unused to “ the melting mood.” 

In his journeys to and from the schools Mr. R 

was led by his faithful wife ; and at length there grew 
up about him so great a fascination in the children’s 
minds, that they would flock around him at every oppor- 
tunity and wherever he was to be seen, w-hether in the 
streets or upon the dismissal of the schools he addressed. 
And these attentions he was ever ready to repay with a 
hearty good word for them, kindly or playful, or with a 
shake of the hand, or a pat on the head, — thus sending, 
for the time, a real joy through all the horizon of more 
than one young being, and helping, to the extent of his 
ability, to “bend” many a precious “twig” of future 
manhood and womanhood permanently towards the ha- 
bitual sunshine of an upright, pheerful, and hopeful tone 


312 


LEAVES FROM A 


of life. As was just and fitting, it was rare that he ad- 
dressed a school, either on the Sabbath or a week-day, 
but that some kind friends present put into his hand a 
sum of money, more or less ; and these little contribu- 
tions, in the total, formed an important auxiliary to the 
ordinary earnings of his wife, and served to render their 
declining years comparatively comfortable. 

Mr. K is, at the time of my writing this, still 

living ; and if, perchance, his ears should ever listen to 
the subject-matter of this brief sketch, and he should 
thus find daguerreotyped before him his own experiences 
and emotions, let me tender to him the assurance that, 
throughout all this affair, his real name remains known 
only to himself and the author of this book ; and say to 
him, that the latter will ever strive to appreciate the full 
meaning of the maxim, that “ a generous mind should 
scorn a pleasure which gives another pain.” 

I will here only add an expression of my confidence 
that, if the lessons of this brief history should be the 
means of fixing the attention of some who have passed 
through similar trials, and should lead such to listen to 
the calls which Providence has uttered to them , by no 
one would the publication of this sketch be indorsed 
with more satisfaction than by him whose checkered 
life has furnished its materials. 



physician’s journal. 


313 


MISPLACED AFFECTION. 

MY THIRD CASE OF POISONING. 



(OMINGr home one evening quite late, and desir- 
ing not to disturb either wife or children, who, 
I concluded, were already wrapped in sound 
slumber, I simply removed my coat, and threw 
myself upon an office-lounge, flattering myself that 
even there I could sufficiently rest a weary body and 
an aching head. I soon fell into a sound sleep ; but 
my poor auditory nerves have become so educated and 
so sensitive to sounds, that the sudden and sharp 
* ‘tinkle, tinkle” of my office-bell, which, not long after 
my retiring, broke the stillness of the room, quickly 
brought me back to consciousness, and the somewhat 
disagreeable consciousness that, without doubt, I was 
summoned to quit my couch of rest and again go forth 
to the duties of my calling. Springing to my feet, while 
endeavoring to collect my scattered ideas, I asked — 

“ Who is there ? and what is wanted ?” 

A weak and tremulous voice replied — 

“ Do come with me, Doctor, for God’s sake 1 a young 
lady has poisoned herself.” 

I hastily opened the door, and still not knowing 
whether it was man or woman that addressed me, bade 
the figure, which I but dimly saw in the darkness, 
14 


314 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ Come in.” As I turned on the gas, a tall female form 
entered the room, hurriedly addressing to me again the 
request I had just heard. I inquired the name, and 
sought to know more explicitly the object of this call. 

“ My name is .” 

“ Strange,” I replied, “ that a lady should come on 
such an errand, and at this time in the morning.” 

“ I know it all,” she said, “ but ’tis my own sister, 
and I am anxious that as few as possible should know of 
this dreadful affair. But, Doctor, time is precious : you 
will come with me, will you not ?” 

“ How far is it ?” I inquired. “ Can we walk there ? 
This is a very unseasonable hour to get up my carriage ; 
and besides, my man is asleep.” 

“ Certainly,” she answered, “ we can walk there. It 
is not more than half a mile.” 

As soon as I could throw on my coat, and provide 
myself with such medicinal agents as it appeared to me 
might possibly be called for, we took our departure. 
After a fatiguing walk of — as I judged — more than half 
an hour, through lonely streets, where, save the occa- 
sional sharp ring of a watchman’s club on the pave- 
ment, and the answering ring from some other quarter, 
no other sounds but those of our own quick footfalls were 
to be heard, I said to my companion, as we hurried on — 

“ Ladies, I find, are not always good judges of dis- 
tances.” 

“ It does seem further than I thought it was,” she re- 
plied ; " but since this frightful thing happened I have 
scarcely known what I have been about.” 

When within half a block of our destination we were 
met by a very aged gentleman. 


physician’s journal. 


315 


“ Be as quick as possible !” he exclaimed. “ I fear you 
will be too late j” and I could observe that, as he spoke, 
he was trembling with intense excitement. 

My companion and the elderly gentleman preceded me 
into the house ; and, as I passed within the door, I ob- 
served, standing partly behind it, a young man, fop- 
pishly dressed, who indicated by signs his wish to speak 
with me. In a low but earnest tone, he said — 

“ Do all you can, Doctor, for Heaven’s sake ! for El- 
eanor. I would not have her name and mine go into 
the papers for ten thousand dollars. She has done this 
in a fit of jealousy. Let no trouble or expense be 
spared ; you shall be well rewarded.” 

Wondering in my mind who this could be, I simply 
answered his expostulations with the words, “ I shall do 
my best,” and hastened on to the scene of my profes- 
sional duties. In the room in which lay the self-intended 
victim of poison, all save herself were now, as I entered, 
anxiously awaiting my arrival. The young lady who 
was the object of all this solicitude was lying upon a 
bed, the elegance of the workmanship and drapery of 
which well comported with that of every thing else in 
the apartment. The old gentleman and my lady visitant 
had taken their places at the two sides of the bed, near 
to her. A physician of the neighborhood was also pres- 
ent, who had been called in some little time before my 
arrival, and had been operating in the case, but without 
success. Learning of him what was the poison taken, 
the time that had elapsed since it was swallowed, and 
the particulars of his management thus far, I had as 
speedily come to a decision, and at once suggested the 
adoption of the heroic treatment in the case, in both the 


316 


LEAVES FROM A 


respects of quality and quantity of the remedy to be 
employed. 

Quickly pouring into a large tablespoon, that I found 
lying on a stand near by, about a drachm of a liquid 
which I had brought with me, I requested of the still 
conscious sufferer to swallow this draught. It was at 
this point that, naturally, my trouble really began. The 
almost dying girl utterly refused my request, and with 
the most woebegone countenance, on which sorrow and 
despair were too legibly written, she murmured — 

“ Oh, do let me die, Doctor ! I am weary of life. 
My mind is wrecked I — my hopes are gone ! — I have 
nothing now to live for ! If you bring me back, you 
will only continue my misery 

“ But you must take this, Eleanor !” I at once re- 
joined, knowing too well the value of the moments, and 
having no disposition to parley with the girl. I made a 
violent effort to pry open her jaws, which she firmly 
compressed together ; and presently, seeing my reso- 
luteness, and that I was not to be trifled with, she re- 
signed herself to my will and swallowed the medicine. 
It was a narcotic poison that I gave her, but, at the 
same time, one that was a direct antidote to that which 
she had taken. I was, in fact, as the old adage has 
it, “ fighting the devil with fire.” 

Fifteen minutes elapsed — minutes that were, to all of 
us, fraught with intense interest. Meanwhile, no per- 
ceptible effect as yet followed from the antidote given. 
Nervously I poured out another drachm, and adminis- 
tered it. My patient offered no resistance now. After 
the lapse of a suitable interval, I gave a third and sim- 
ilar dose. Still there was no perceptible effect. Upon 


physician’s journal. 


317 


consultation, we concluded it was not, for the time, pru- 
dent to repeat the dose ; and we seated ourselves to 
await results. The moments seemed as though hours in 
length. Intense anxiety was felt by all, but by none 
more than myself, who, at the request of the physician 
already in attendance and of the family, had assumed 
the responsibility of the case. 

Three hours had now elapsed since Eleanor had swal- 
lowed the poison, and well-nigh half an hour since she 
had received the last dose of the antidote. At this 
time it was that, to my great satisfaction and joy, I de- 
tected proof that the antidote I had given was having 
its effect, in the fact that the pupils of my patient’s eyes 
were gradually dilating. My mental ejaculation was, 
“ She is safe 1” though to this I had to add — “ provided 
she be kept quiet and passive for three hours more.” 

It was about this time that the young man I had met 
at the door first entered the room in which Eleanor was 
lying. I was curious to know what his relation to the 
affair might be ; and, unobserved, I watched narrowly 
both his and my patient’s looks and behavior. He had 
seated himself in one corner of the room, his head re- 
clining upon his breast ; and at times he gave forth a 
deep-drawn sigh. When he raised his eyes, they were 
invariably directed across the room to the bed on which 
the girl was lying. When she looked up, which was 
seldom, her eyes glanced to where the young man sat. 
And in the instances in which I observed their eyes to 
mee t — twice or thrice in all, during my stay of some 
hours — I saw that there was on her part a look of 
love, mingled with deep sorrow and a sense of aban- 
donment. 


318 


LEAVES FROM A 


All this, taken in connection with the singular lan- 
guage uttered to me by the young man at the door, 
convinced me that the real relation of the parties was, 
or had been, that of — lovers. 

The young man was a person of large frame ; one 
who would stand not less than six feet in height, and 
whose broad muscular form gave him altogether a 
commanding appearance. He had a broad forehead, a 
dark and piercing eye, fringed with heavy lashes, and 
cheeks ruddy with the hue of health ; while his black 
and curling hair was dressed in the fashionable man- 
ner, and with much care. Physically, he was, of a cer- 
tainty, a model of a man — one, in form and feature alike, 
well fitted to attract and win the regard of young, lovely, 
and trusting womanhood. 

My patient, on the other hand, was a young lady of 
slight and delicate form, and one who, although not 
really handsome, was still endowed with many attrac- 
tive qualities. Color, if she had ever possessed it, was 
now wholly gone. It was true, also, that her forehead 
was somewhat low and retreating ; yet the general 
delicacy of her features, the quick play of feeling that 
could be seen showing itself through all their linea- 
ments, which were lighted up meanwhile by a pair of 
brilliant eyes — black or hazel, I could scarcely yet say 
which — all together combined to form a face whose ex- 
pressiveness I have never seen surpassed, if indeed I 
may even say equalled. I could see that, in the play 
of the features of that now pale and almost marble-like 
countenance, every possible shade of the thought and 
feeling within would, in her hours of health and activity, 
be vividly portrayed. 


physician’s journal. 


319 


Eleanor could not have been then over seventeen 
years of age. This was, no doubt, her first love. With 
all the passionateness of a young woman’s heart she 
had, it was evident, given herself up to this love. And 
now it had reached in its history the strange chapter 
which we have before us ! The family, it could plainly 
be seen, were of a somewhat aristocratic stamp ; and 
every thing about indicated not merely convenience and 
comfort, but also affluence and taste. Splendid tapes- 
try, a carpet of the richest Wilton style, magnificent 
pier-glasses, and damask curtains of finest texture, were 
among the adornments of the sleeping-chamber in which 
we were gathered. 

At length, observing that my patient’s symptoms 
showed a steady improvement, and having attended to 
all the requisite minutiae of such a visit, and given the 
most exact directions, I proposed to leave. 

The aged gentleman waited on me to the door. In 
parting, he asked : “ Doctor, will she recover ?” 

I replied, “ I think she will, if the directions are 
strictly followed ; but it will require some time for her 
to get over the shock her nervous system has received.” 

“ Call as early as possible in the morning', ” said he ; 
“ for while we have our own family physician, I dare 
not let him know about the affair, and I desire your at- 
tendance.” 

“ She will now be likely to sleep for some hours at 
least, and you must watch her narrowly. After what I 
consider a proper interval, I shall call again.” 

It was now nearly daylight, and, as I wended my way 
homeward, I said within myself — “ There is, I fear, a 
history to this case which is not yet fully developed.” 


320 


LEAVES FROM A 


The sequel — alas ! alas ! for poor human nature — too 
fully demonstrated this. 

At ten the next day I was by the side of my young 
patient. She had but just awakened out of a deep and 
heavy sleep, and appeared bewildered. I quieted and 
assured her as to who I was, and she faintly whispered 
her thanks. Then almost immediately, at some thought, 
she was agitated with the deepest emotion. She threw 
her arms wildly around, and, apparently gasping for 
breath, exclaimed — 

“ 0 God ! I would that I was dead ! Oh that I had 
never been born ! — to have brought such disgrace on 
my poor old father and my family. Why did you bring 
me back to life, Doctor ? Death would be a relief to 
me now. I was happy once ; but, alas ! there is no 
more peace of mind for me. The sooner I am dead, 
now, and out of misery, the better !” 

“ You are very ill, now, Eleanor,” I said to her ; “ you 
will be better in a short time, and then you will not feel 
as you now do. You are young, and rich, and have 
many friends around you ; surely, time will bring to 
you great changes for the better.” 

“ 0 Doctor,” she exclaimed, “ neither youth, nor 
place, nor riches, nor friends will ever make any change 
for me, guilty and wretched as I am — abandoned by 
him I loved, and who, I thought, loved me. I am a 
curse to myself, and a source of misery to all around 
me. 0 God ! that ever I was born ! 0 mother ! dear 

mother ! if your sainted spirit beholds my sorrow, how 
must you suffer ! But you are happy, I know, and rest 
peacefully ignorant of the tortures your poor Eleanor 
has now to bear.” 


physician’s journal. 


321 


I thought it not best to check the unburdening of her 
crushed feelings, and she continued — 

“ Two years ago I placed my heart — my whole heart 
— on him that you saw here last night. He declared 
that he loved me, and he gave every evidence that I 
thought necessary to prove it. We were always to- 
gether. My mother and father did not disapprove of 
such intimacy. Yet, among her last words, my mother 
— she is dead now 1 — said to me, * Eleanor, do not con- 
fide too implicitly in any man.’ Oh, that I had heeded 
that last warning l I did not. How could I ? But the 
die is cast. All is done : all is gone 1 And I have 
taught myself the hardest lesson ; yes, I have given 
him up, now 1” And at these words she buried her face 
in her pillow, and wept bitterly. 

After a little time, I said — 

" But he visits you yet. He was here when I first 
came to see you. He promised to marry you, did he not? 
and no doubt he will still be ready to perform his vows.” 

“ I would not” — she interrupted me — “ be his wife on 
any conditions, now. For some time, I heard he was 
going to marry another ; but I believed it not. He 
always declared I was his only choice. At last I found, 
by proofs I could not doubt, that he had deceived me 
and all my friends. His coming here last evening was 
only because father had sent for him, to explain his con- 
duct towards me. And then he coldly denied all love 
for me. He declared that he had never meant to make 
me his wife. At that last declaration, Doctor, there 
came sorrow deeper than the grave. My poor heart was 
broken. I rushed to my room : I threw myself on this 
bed, and lost myself for a time in an agony of grief. But, 
14 * 


322 


LEAVES FROM A 


partially recovering myself, a dark and sinful purpose 
at once took possession of me. I went to my drawer 
there, in which I well knew I had a fatal poison. I 
drank of it — how much, I neither knew nor cared. My 
poor sister soon after came into the room, not imagining 
nor dreaming of what I had done : she saw the vial, and 
at once knew what that meant. 1 Eleanor P she screamed, 
in terror, ‘ what have you done V She ran and called 
my poor, dear father. I felt that their tears and cries 
were now in vain : I did not speak — I only longed to 
die ! But when my father demanded of me, in Heaven's 
name, if I had taken the fatal potion, I confessed the 
act. The rest, Doctor, you know.” 

It was a saddening revelation that had thus been 
gradually made to me ; but I now felt that I understood 
the entire situation. 

“ I must see the young man,” I said. “ Surely he will 
do justly in the matter, and act as a gentleman.” 

“No, no, no !” she said, emphatically ; “let the past 
be buried in the waters of oblivion, and let no star or 
sun ever shine upon it !” 

Her aged father and her sister just then entered the 
room ; and they no doubt understood from our looks, it 
might be also from overhearing the last words in our 
conversation" what the subject of discourse had been. 
The aged man, his gray locks flowing gracefully over 
his shoulders, and his eyes at once red with past weep- 
ing and now filled with tears, said to me — 

“Doctor, this is a dreadful affair. What shall I do ? 
These are my children. Eleanor was the joy of my poor 
old heart ; but her troubles will bring down my gray 
hairs with sorrow to the grave.” 


physician’s journal. 


323 


“Cannot something be done in the matter ?” I in- 
quired. 

“ Nothing, sir ! nothing, absolutely,” he said (his fam- 
ily and personal pride evidently rising as he spoke) ; 
“that man has abused my confidence, as well as hers / 
and if he were to come now, even as a penitent and a 
suppliant, he could not have Eleanor’s hand — no, not 
under any circumstances. Money he might have had 
once — friends and business — help unlimited : but not 
now — not now — oh ! no, no ! The die is cast : the fam- 
ily of the D y’s shall never be thus degraded — at 

least while / live !” 

“But,” I replied, “you should consider for your 
daughter, too. Her health, her happiness, her very life 
may be far more imperilled than they are even now, by 
a course of too great sternness on your part.” 

This thought evidently touched the heart of the aged 
man. He made no reply, but seemed thinking. I turned 
to the sister, with an inquiring look ; but I said nothing, 
wishing that she should speak first. She understood 
me. 

“Doctor,” said she, “I feel free to do any thing you 
would advise us to do — that is, if it can reasonably be 
done ; and I feel sure you will not urge what could not 
be. Will you not say what you would advise ?” 

“ My advice,” I answered, “ would be this : that you 
should make one more earnest effort to induce the young 
man to do what is honorable and right in the case ; and, 
in order to aid to any extent that I might be able to — if 
it be agreeable — I will, for Eleanor’s sake, be present on 
the occasion. I have even some slight claims on the 
young man, and I will strive to present the case to him 


324 


LEAVES FROM A 


in its real light. Perhaps I could now do this better 
than, with your justly wounded and pained feelings, you 
could yourselves do.” 

It required no little persuasion to gain both Eleanor’s 
and the old gentleman’s consent ; but all was at last 
effected. This was on Tuesday, and the time set for the 
expected meeting was the evening of the following 
Thursday ; for I felt that Eleanor’s bodily strength, at 
least, could not sooner be sufficiently restored to admit 
of a conference that must, in any event, be one of very 
exciting nature. 

As I retired, I almost chided myself for my officious- 
ness in a matter of such delicacy, and one demanding so 
much nice balancing of facts and of personal feelings. 
Yet I felt that I was now enlisted in the affair, past the 
possibility of honorable retreat, and that I must go for- 
ward and do my best, whatever the final result might 
be. In the intervening time, I called upon the young 
man, not letting him know directly what was my object ; 
but I obtained* an assurance that, at the time already 
appointed, he would meet me at the house of my patient. 

Thursday evening came, and I found myself at the 
side of my patient a whole hour earlier than my engage- 
ment, such was my nervousness and the anxiety I felt 
in the issue of the whole affair. Eleanor could, by this 
time, sit up in her room ; but her health was much shat- 
tered, and her natural vivacity had given way to silence 
and absorbing thought. Striving to rally her drooping 
spirits, I expressed my hopes that this affair would yet 
all be right. She looked for a moment out of the win- 
dow, and then called me to it. 

‘‘Do you see one star, Doctor?” she asked. 


physician’s journal. 


325 


It was, in fact, a very cloudy night ; and the wind, 
sighing mournfully in the neighboring trees, appeared 
to add to the gloom. 

“ But what if I can't see a star V 1 I said. 

“Nothing, perhaps,” she replied ; “but, for myself, I 
cannot see one star, nor one ray of light. If you can, I 
am glad for your sake, not for mine.” 

Presently we heard a carriage stopping at the door, 
and then the hall-bell rang. 

“ 'Tis he 1” Eleanor said ; and added, “ I will retire 
into an adjoining room, so as to leave all of you free to 
do and say as you please.” 

In a briefer time than I can pen it, we were all pre- 
sented to each other, and very formally — the father and 
sister then taking seats side by side, and Rufus and my- 
self in front of each other. Great embarrassments al- 
ways precede the introduction of unpleasant topics, and 
our present case formed no exception to the rule. 

It was soon manifest that all the rest were waiting for 
me to commence ; and I slowly, and at first with much 
hesitation, said — 

“ I am sure, friends, I do not feel any more than your- 
selves how unpleasant and embarrassing this affair is. 

Mr. W , I need not dwell on the relations heretofore 

existing between yourself and Eleanor — the length of 
time you have been attending on her — your vows, as I 
have been informed, of affection for her — your promises 
of marriage — and all those details which constitute, on 
her part, a claim upon you. It is now two years since 
you wooed and won the susceptible and confiding heart 
of this young woman — of one who is herself as excellent 
as she is true and devoted, and who is every way well 


326 


LEAVES FROM A 


worthy of you ; and now, by all the principles of recti- 
tude and honor — by all the acts stamping and embody- 
ing the character of a gentleman — you are, in truth, in 
justice, and in duty, bound to make good the promises 
you have made.” 

I could see that my words did not fall upon calloused 
or unfeeling ears. Whatever the mistakes, the errors, or 
the wrong-doing of the life of him who listened to my 
expostulations, he was, at least, neither devoid of intel- 
ligence nor sensibility. His features had already worked 
strongly under the struggle within of contending emo- 
tions ; and it appeared to me that, though memory was 
not silent, nor honor and the sense of duty wholly want- 
ing, yet these were vainly striving against the foregone 
choice of his own heart, or against what he may have 
felt to be the power of his fate. After I closed, he was 
silent a few moments, appearing to review his own 
position and to decide, and then abruptly asked me — 

“Would you have me marry Eleanor, when I love 
another ?” 

“But, Mr. W I replied, “it appears that for 

two years past you have been declaring that you loved 
Eleanor ; yes 1 as I understand, your wedding-day has 
been twice appointed, and it has then, for trifling rea- 
sons, been put off by yourself.” 

“ But I do not love her,” he this time coolly replied, 
“and I shall never, you may be assured, marry one 
woman while my heart is engaged to another.” 

This was now said as flippantly as if no agony were 
felt, or were to be caused, in the affair, and no heart — 
neither his own nor another’s — were involved in it ; as 
if, indeed, it had been but a mere business transaction, 


physician’s journal. 


327 


or matter of dollars and cents. My heart ached within 
me ; but it waxed indignant, too. If thrashing a man, 
on occasion, were an illustration of a Christian virtue, 
and if the proprieties of the place and the occasion 
would have permitted it, I felt like doing the work on 
the spot. , 

The aged father, now no longer able to restrain his 

feelings, and with choking utterance, ordered W 

to leave his house, lest his life’s blood might yet 
stain his soul. He sternly and coldly replied that he 
should not have come but at the Doctor’s request, and 
that he wished to say now that he was glad to be rid of 
further importunities to do what was utterly distasteful 
to him. 

While the dispute was culminating between the old 
gentleman and Rufus, I heard, in the room to which 
Eleanor had withdrawn, a suppressed groan, and then 
what appeared like a fall, muffled and heavy — cir- 
cumstances that, in the excitement, were unnoticed by 
all save myself. As Rufus left the room, I opened the 
door leading to that in which Eleanor was. She lay 
there on the floor — she had fainted. Her sister and my- 
self carried her to the bed she had but lately left, and by 
restoratives succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. 

But though, seemingly, consciousness returned, a 
great change had, in that brief interval, passed upon 
brain and spirit with the unhappy Eleanor. She laughed 
and cried alternately, and apparently without cause at 
the moment. Though so weak she could scarcely stand, 
she insisted on rising from her bed, and then she sang 
and danced. Coming to me and putting her arm about 
my neck, while she looked archly in my face, she said — 


328 


LEAVES FROM A 


“ What do you think ? I shall be married — yes ! 
married, on New Year’s eve. My wedding-dress is 

made : my bridesmaid shall be Maggie M ; I have 

engaged her.” And thus the unhappy creature’s 
thoughts ran on. Presently she said — “ Rufus says he 
loves me I You will come, too, will you not ?” Then, 
turning to her sister — “Susan, you shall dress me. I 
know you will ; you have always been a dear, good 
sister, since mother died.” At that thought, in a mo- 
ment, her manner changed, and she screamed out — “ 0 
mother ! mother ! where are you ?” Then she knelt, 
and fervently repeated that prayer so often uttered, and 
which is never inappropriate — the Lord’s prayer. 

Just as Eleanor began to pray, her father re-entered 
the room. Her sister and myself had been struck dumb 
at the strange spectacle thus so unexpectedly acted be- 
fore us, each one fearing what neither of us dared to 
speak ; and now, the horror of the father’s looks too 
plainly told us that his thoughts were akin to our own. 
The old gentleman stood there in silence, his form erect, 
but his face pale and wearing an absorbed and intense 
expression ; and as he gazed upon the soul-moving 
scene before him, a deep groan, and then the exclama- 
tion, “ 0 my God ! my dear, sweet Eleanor !” first broke 
the silence. 

Then, as if by instinct, both father and sister at once 
rushed to the kneeling woman — her father taking her 
by the hand, while the sister threw her arms around her 
neck, and said passionately, uttering at the same time a 
piercing cry — 

“ Dearest Eleanor ! why do you do this ? Sister, speak 
to me 1 What does this mean ?” 


PHYSICIAN'S JOURNAL. 329 

But poor Eleanor only looked childishly up into their 
faces, and said — 

“When is Valentine’s day? I must send Rufus a 
beautiful valentine ; for I am sure he will send me one. 
Won’t he, pa ?” 

Such questions, at such a time 1 — they admit of no an- 
swer. Silence and pain are the only reply that, for days, 
months, perhaps years, the stricken soul has for them. 

Eleanor’s father and sister turned their faces away 
from her. It was too true — reason had fled ! The pres- 
sure on the burdened heart had been too heavy, and it 
had broken — the cord that bound the soul to its just 
harmony with sense, and the things of sense, had been 
strained too severely, and it had snapped quite asunder, 
never to be joined again in one — never to be replaced 1 

“ Doctor,” said the father to me, when he could suffi- 
ciently collect himself, “you will stay with us all night. 
As for me, I know not where to go for advice or com- 
fort. 0 God 1 my poor girl 1 my darling Eleanor ! She 
is the image of her mother. It was my hope that she 
would be happily married, and that then I should live 
with her, spending my few remaining days in peace, 
until I should be called home to meet my dear wife. 
Now all peace and joy is gone.” 

Gentle reader, the finale of this sad history is soon 
told. Eleanor finished her days in a lunatic asylum. 
There I often visited her, as a confirmed lunatic — one 
who gradually more and still more lost her remaining 
feeble hold upon sense and intelligence, until she died, 
at length, a hopeless idiot. Utterly demented, she be- 
came what might be called a simple, loving idiot — no 
longer recognizing either her father or her sister, when 


330 


LEAVES FROM A 


they came to see her, and calling every man she might 
happen to see, her “ dear Rufus !” 

As for him who had caused all this earthly wreck of 
the hopes and powers of a loving human soul, Rufus 

W , I met him no longer than a month after the day 

on which his final cold rejection of her had destroyed poor 
Eleanor’s reason, and upon a prominent thoroughfare of 
the city of B ; and I was not less pained than star- 

tled when, with at least an appearance of great noncha- 
lance and of much satisfaction, he introduced to me the 
handsome and somewhat dashing lady who leaned on 
his arm, as his young wife I 

About a year from that date, I again met Rufus W . 

This time it was at about the hour of four o’clock in the 
morning, and as I was returning home from a night-call. 
Coming up to me, Rufus accosted me as follows : 

“ Hillo, Doc ! is this you (a hiccough) ? How have 
you been (hie — hie) ? I say, Doctor, this is life, isn’t 
it ? Where’s Eleanor now, hey (hie — hie — hie) ?” 

I replied, “ I suppose you know as well as I do.” 

“ Oh 1 — (hie) — up at the ’sylum, eh (hie — hie) ?” 

And this was my last meeting with Rufus ! 

Three months afterwards I saw, in the public papers, 
that his wife had entered in the courts a suit for a divorce 
from him. 

These are but parts, it may be said by the cynical , of 
the world’s history — that they are stray chips : but the 
block is like them. I am happy to be able, however, 
from a somewhat wide and careful observation, to assert 
what the truly virtuous everywhere believe ; and that 
is, that, even if these experiences of the utter wreck and 
ruin that had been formed at the outset under better 


physician’s journal. 


331 


and more promising influences, do form a far too numer- 
ous body of exceptions in life, yet they are, after all, 
only exceptions, and by no means the rule. It is in part 
because blessings and happiness are the rule, even in 
this life, that ruin and misery, where we meet with them, 
strike us with all the greater force. 

It will not do, then, upon witnessing some such wreck 
of a promising manhood or womanhood as I have above 
feebly endeavored to portray, to sneer derisively, with 
“ the scorner,” “ Sic transit gloria mundi !” or to resign 
ourselves in despair to the feeling, “ How mistaken is 
the thought of human happiness 1” For " the scorner” 
only loses by blinding himself to the great fact of a real 
human happiness that is still everywhere about him ; 
and while it is true that, in time, all the glory of the 
world must pass away, yet there is a glory of virtue, of 
character, and of religion, that grows brighter even 
down to its setting — a fruition of life that is crowned, 
at the last, by being gathered like a sheaf of wheat 
fully ripe for the harvest I 



332 


LEAVES FROM A 


THE STAB. 


S AR too commonly human life is a thing of hurry 
and waywardness : sometimes it rises to a 
headlong speed, with all the attendant dangers. 
Individual experience is at best limited ; the 
horizon that, at any moment and in any single direction, 
bounds our vision, is narrow indeed ; and our deepest 
wisdom is too commonly imperfect or foolish. What 
wonder, then, is it, when a crowd of eager desires or 
even violent passions urge us onward, that wreck after 
wreck should strew the shores of the tumultuous and 
mazy sea we have all to navigate ! What wonder that 
many who set out with the benison of parental bless- 
ings, the kind hopes of friends, and prospects all cheer- 
ing, should fall by the way into profligate courses, or 
too soon end their career in disgrace and ruin ! 

The young man may think it a light thing to con- 
tract the habit of poisoning his breath, his blood, and 
his constitution with tobacco, or to have his first hila- 
rious night of drinking with a band of reckless com- 
panions, or to yield to vices that sap the energies of the 
man, while they debase and defile the soul ; but it is no 
longer a light thing when a few more years have devel- 
oped the first into a depraved taste and general dissipa- 


PHYSICIAN S JOURNAL. 


333 


tion, or the second into drunken brawls and perhaps 
bodily maiming’, or the third into utter loss of purity and 
manliness, perhaps of health or life. It is no light thing 
when, years after, the almost necessary consummation 
of such a course stares suddenly upon him in blighted 
hopes and character, perhaps meets him in the form of 
the narrow walls of a prison, or it may be in that last 
look snatched by the culprit at the foot of the gallows 
from the beautiful world which he has not known how 
to use aright 1 

To these and other reflections, such as must naturally 
occur to every thoughtful and benevolent mind, I was 
led by the sudden, and many would say slight, occur- 
rence which I shall now relate. 

It was a clear and beautiful night in January, 1850. 
The ground was well covered with snow to the depth of 
a few inches ; the air was keen and salubrious ; and the 
merry bells told but too plainly how the citizens of 
Brooklyn were enjoying themselves abroad. 

I had returned home jaded and weary with the labor 
and anxiety incident to visiting the sick who had placed 
themselves under my care, and had retired to seek the 
refreshing of “ tired nature’s sweet restorer, balmy 
sleep.” Not long had my weary head pressed the pil- 
low before I was kindly received into the arms of Mor- 
pheus ; and then at once, in that wide domain of which 
the nimble sprite Fancy is sole owner and proprietor, I 
was rambling over hills and through blossoming fields, 
now plucking the beautiful wild-flowers, analyzing and 
classifying them in the as yet unheard of families and 
orders to which those rare productions belong, and anon 
collecting the medicinal shrubs, barks, ana leaves of 


334 


LEAVES FROM A 


most wondrous virtue and potency, that abound in the 
remarkable soil of that country. But the end, which 
comes to every thing, came to my travels. 

A succession of loud and quick raps at my office-door 
aroused me. I sprang to my feet and quickly struck a 
light. It was near two o’clock in the morning. Mean- 
while my ears were saluted with the cry — 

“ A stab 1 a stab ! Doctor, open the door quickly, 
or my brother will die.” 

I hurried to the door, and, throwing back the bolt, 
quickly opened it, when to my view there were pre- 
sented four young men of apparently eighteen or twenty 
years of age, who were supporting as best they could a 
fifth — the latter in a fainting condition. 

“ Doctor, I shall die. God have mercy on me ! Will 
I recover ? Is the wound a fatal one ?” were exclama- 
tions and questions that followed each other in quick 
succession. 

I placed the patient in a horizontal position, and com- 
menced an examination of the wound. It was situated 
on the left side of the abdomen, about three inches above 
the pelvic bones. Its length was full two inches, and 
the bowels were protruding from it. I at first greatly 
feared that they might be so caught by the edges of the 
wound as to refuse to be returned — a grave accident, 
surgically known as strangulation. With the exercise of 
patience and care, however, I succeeded in reducing or 
returning the protruding parts ; and I found that, for- 
tunately, the knife had only severed the walls of the ab- 
domen, leaving the intestines uninjured. I sewed up 
the wound, and applied small strips of adhesive plaster 
so as to bring and keep the parts in close proximity, 


physician’s journal. 335 

endeavoring, if possible, to secure the healing of the 
wound directly and without suppuration, or, as medical 
men phrase it, 11 by the first intention.” 

From the conversation of the young men, carried on 
while I was dressing the wound, I could gather that 
they had been on a bacchanalian excursion, perhaps at 
some free-and-easy club ; that they were at this unsea- 
sonable hour returning home, and on their way meeting 
some inoffensive citizen, had attacked him, and, for 
aught that appeared to the contrary, with the intention 
of robbing him. The wayfarer, surprised and in danger 
by their onslaught, had naturally resorted to the first 
effectual means of protection at his command, and, 
drawing his knife in self-defence, had stabbed one of 
the gang. Hence my midnight patient ; hence the un- 
anticipated and savage stop put to the reckless course 
with which cheap gin or factitious brandy had fired the 
brains of the victim and his comrades, and the rude but 
wholesome lesson which he certainly, and they probably, 
received. 

“ Alas I” thought I, as I listened to the excited ex- 
clamations of my patient’s comrades, “ this is one of the 
many bitter fruits of these midnight revels.” Young 
men — if any should chance to read this little sketch — 
allow for a moment the counsel of a friend. Avoid in- 
temperance and all irregularities ; for they not only 
debase your manhood and sap the foundations of char- 
acter, but destroy the balance and cast away the safe- 
guards of your own minds, laying you open, in an unsus- 
pected hour and way, to the greatest of perils and losses. 
Shun the society of the vile and profligate ; for such 
companionship can lead to no possible end but infamy 


336 


LEAVES, ETC. 


and disgrace. Beware of the midnight revel ; for when 
in its fancied, or at best frenzied enjoyment, you have 
drowned reason, prudence, all delicate sensibilities and 
moral sense, then the demon you have invited to take 
possession of your souls will “turn and rend you” — 
it will bring upon its votaries “ swift destruction.” 

When I had finished sewing up and dressing the 
ugly-looking gash, I dispensed to the young men what I 
considered some good advice, and finally enjoined upon 
them that the patient must be carried to his residence 
in a horizontal and quiet position. Thereupon I re- 
ceived half the proper fee for my services, with the 
promise that the remainder should be forthcoming in 
the morning. Two of the number leaving for a few 
minutes, soon returned with what appeared to be some 
neighbor’s window-shutter : on this they stretched the 
patient, and with still half-drunken, half-penitent ejacu- 
lations, but without the grace or the conscience to say 
“ Thank you,” or even " Good-night,” they moved down 
the street, and were soon out of sight. 

That was all ; and I retired again to rest. I do not 
know how much or how little good the lesson may have 
done my patient, for I never heard from or of him after- 
. wards. 



f { '3 0 93 















* 

* - 

*. ^ 0^ 

* ■lo J , * 

*' & 

% O * 

" 1 ’ <# * • - 0 9 ^0 

<> ** V/* -<V * t • 

* _^ 4 //^x «■* 



« *tju fS 


cv 


*%. •. 



* ^ * 
; ^ v - 


«° *° ■%. 

* 0 V“~\» «- 

<5> * » “• 

<p v (ijv^ "> V t * 




aV** : 
’/ ** ^ • 




t ' 0 



<<y c° M * * 

yt> * c^55^v ^ 

vN * o<n\\\ * rp\ 


* %, 

’ «b K* 

>° &'%. - w ,, ., 

...» ,0° V*^-’ ^ °o '*.;. 


* ■❖p V?*, o 

♦ <35* • 

-6 V \5 'o . * * 

C° °o 


5>°-V 



jfr » * * »- '<?• 

' * ** *♦ •*< 

^ ^ 

^ V ~0 * A 

0 **% ^ .CT v *c> ^ o°"«* 

r -r. V-f * j&Jf/Tpz ’ * 0 ,<0 

* A Cr • j^ifw&a^ “ o V 


t 1 & 


y \ »QB7»' & - 

-*U -' ■ ^ <«■ • * J.G* % 

» .V c » " “ * <S\ 0* • l '*-* '*b 


’’of 


5.° V 





•<’•’ y‘ % '‘.T:-' .o v v ♦.,, 

v t ^ aO^ .’•«-. *> \> , 

^ „<£ »jAW 

: ^ v 


•* 


c *n 






° cT 







